Coming Home
by BackToTheStart
Summary: AU post S7. Dying changes everything. Strong House/Wilson friendship, Huddy.
1. Chapter 1

**Post 7x23. I actually published another story before this, but I didn't like the rate at which things were unfolding. So here it is, a newer and different version. But the storyline is going to be similar – if you read the previous one you'll know what to expect. But I much prefer things to be developing at this slower rate. Hopefully you guys will enjoy it more too. **

* * *

><p>It was two years before they saw him again. Turns out he had the heart to turn up at his own mother's funeral.<p>

Wilson and Cuddy were there, out of respect for the genial old lady whom they had met several times. They watched him limp in the door halfway through the funeral service.

He was at there for a whole fifteen minutes before the cops turned up and slapped the cuffs on him. He didn't even struggle.

* * *

><p>House rubbed his spasming thigh with both hands, trying to ignore the pain that radiated from his wrists as he placed pressure on them. Struggling futilely against a guy twice as strong as you would do that.<p>

_"Heard you got the good stuff from the doc. Hand them over."_

_House ignored the tattooed guy looking for a drug fix standing in his way. He limped to the side, intending to pass him, only to find himself smack against the wall with his arms behind his back. Again._

_He struggled futilely, only to have the grips on his wrists tighten and twist._

_"I need the pills." He whispered. He swallowed, and added as an afterthought, "Please…"_

_Big Guy ignored him, as he always did. Finally locating the pills, they let go of him, but not before shoving him to the ground. He landed on his right side._

_House struggled to his feet. He watched his pain relief, his Vicodin, go down Big Guy's throat._

_As he watched them saunter away, he leaned against the wall waiting for the flames engulfing his right thigh to ebb. He limped back to his cell, using his hands to support himself against the wall._

"You've got a visitor."

He looked up to see the warden standing outside his cell.

And the answer was the same. Every single month for the past year, the answer was the same. He knew who would be waiting outside. He came once a month, same day, same time. Every single month.

"No visitors today, please."

* * *

><p>Wilson looked up as the door opened and the warden walked in, the person he wanted to see conspicuously missing. The warden gave him an apologetic shrug.<p>

The first time Wilson got to see House was when the head warden had called him. 7 attempts to visit House in prison finally resulted in one visit, and that was only because House didn't have a say in the matter.

He had arrived at the prison hospital one hour later only to see House covered in bruises, right leg casted. House looked at him for a moment, then shifted his eyes away.

He sat down next to House, and there was a long silence. How does one start a conversation with someone in prison?

"How are you?" Wilson finally ventured.

House chuckled softly, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. Only Jimmy Wilson would ask how life in prison was. "As good as it can ever get."

"What happened?"

The smile slid off House's face. He turned away from Wilson, and looked out the window. It wasn't very often that he got to see something other than brick or grey walls.

"Turns out being a cripple doctor who helps out in the clinic and has access to drugs, but can't actually supply drugs, doesn't make you very popular in the yard."

Wilson looked at his friend. He expected to see resentment and anger burning in House. Instead, he saw only a kind of bitterness and resignation. There was no fight or fire in his eyes, and Wilson didn't know what to make of that.

So they sat there in silence for what seemed like hours before Wilson managed to gather his wits about him to try resume a normal conversation. House simply listened.

* * *

><p>House opened the 63rd letter from Wilson. He received one every single week despite the fact that he almost never replied with one of his own.<p>

Wilson always tried to make the letter sound upbeat, like it was any other conversation that he had with House. There were updates about General Hospital, Prescription Passion, hospital gossip, the going-ons of the hospital and the Diagnostics and Oncology Department.

Foreman was the Head of Diagnostics. Masters finally got her medical license, and was working with the rest of the team. Thirteen's Huntington's was getting worse, she had embarked on a brief but serious relationship with Chase that ended when she decided she didn't want to be a burden on him. Taub had two boys.

It wasn't that House didn't want to reply to Wilson. In fact, he was goddamn grateful for Wilson's letters. They kept him connected, reminded him that there was a world beyond the grey walls he was trapped within.

Cuddy. His thoughts wandered to her, as they always did so often. Cuddy had found a new job in New York, and had moved there. She couldn't deal with the fall out, the fact that House had literally destroyed her home, and could have killed Rachel in the process. So she had left without a goodbye to make a clean start where her crazy ex-boyfriend couldn't ruin her life. She wanted to get as far away from him.

And House couldn't blame her for that. He wanted to escape from himself too.

House hobbled back to the bed and lay back down on the miserable mattress. He closed his eyes and hung tight to the only thing that connected him to the outside world.

Almost every single time, his thoughts would wander to the same topic. He still remembered feeling exhilarated, feeling free as he stood on the beach that day four years ago. The destruction he had caused was a good outlet for the feelings that had boiled over when he saw Cuddy with another man. He had smiled.

But it was short-lived. The toll of the countless years, the ever-present pain weighed him down. As he stared out at the vast blue ocean, he knew he could never be entirely free of the demons that haunted him. Not even when he was a continent away from them. Not for the rest of his life.

Those two years abroad, he had relied on his skills to supply some drugs here and there to the locals. The police back home had frozen his bank account, and he had had to start all over again in a new country. But he had gotten by. However, such dealings often came with shady personalities, and he had endured a fair share of beatings. As he was pummeled and cursed at each time, he felt that he deserved it. He had done many horrible things – performing unauthorized procedures, insulting patients, forged prescriptions, and been a drug addict. But none had been as horrifying as his final act of destruction back home. So he took each blow and each broken bone as a deserving punishment.

He had come back two years later because he loved his mother, and he would never have forgiven himself if he didn't go. He didn't need to make yet another mistake in his screwed up life. He knew the consequences, but he still came back.

He had sneaked a glance at Cuddy and Wilson as he was led out of the funeral in handcuffs. He felt something in him die as he saw their disappointment.

And so he had come to a conclusion in the large amount of spare time he had in prison.

The infarction had changed him. His dad had been one cruel bastard, and had imbued in him that bleak perspective and the distrust in others.

But it was with his own actions that he had pushed and tested so many people in his life, driving them away from him, squandering the million chances they had given him, committed many mistakes in the effort to find the answers to the puzzles. The answers and the certainty that came with were the only things that gave him security and comfort, and (dare he admit it) hope.

That there had to be a reason behind the seemingly inexplicable things in the world, such as getting infarctions and having half a thigh removed, getting shot by strangers, being abused by your own dad. That the two times in his whole life that he had given his heart to another person, they had ultimately left. And that the world was not the cruel place he had known it to be since he was five.

In the end, there was no answer for all that had happened in his life.

He was tired of running away, tired of constantly searching for answers. The fight against the current that was his miserable life was just too tiring. Tired of clinging onto a hope that seemingly did not exist.

He took the letter and shoved it under the mattress together with all the letters he had collected over the months.

Gregory House was finally admitting defeat.

* * *

><p>Clutching a plastic bag containing his meager belongings and his cane, House limped out the gates of the prison, finally a free man. Only to see the one person he had been avoiding for the past four years.<p>

Wilson unfolded his arms and rose from his car at the sight of House. Their eyes met for a short while before House shifted his gaze to the floor in front of him. He didn't move a step further away from the prison gate. Wilson walked up to his best friend.

"Why are you here, Wilson?" muttered House. _You don't have to do this._

"To take you home." Wilson jerked his head towards the waiting car, "Come on."

They spent the evening with a couple of beers in front of the TV, watching trashy monster truck rallies that Wilson had taped. They even managed to some semblance to the witty banter and snarks that they used to engage so easily in years ago.

But with every minute that passed, House felt parts of him die little by little. For the first time in 4 years, he was eating Wilson's cooking, sitting in Wilson's couch, watching television with Wilson. And he couldn't deal with it. He felt unworthy of it. He felt unworthy of Jimmy The Faithful Best Friend.

"It's getting late, Wilson. I'm going to bed."

Wilson looked at his watch. It was barely 9pm. By House's usual standards, the evening had barely begun. He glanced at his friend. "Okay, I'm feeling tired too."

House struggled to his feet, barely hiding a grimace of pain. His right thigh had been a prime target in jail, and he was no longer on the Vicodin seeing how he had had all his pills forcibly taken away from him anyway. As he turned to limp back into the room, Wilson spoke.

"House, before I forget. I've already applied to have your medical license reinstated. I spoke to the new dean, Jones, and he's willing to take you back as soon as you get your license back."

The silence hung in the air like deadweight.

"Thanks, Wilson." He swallowed hard, "You're… you're a good friend."

The last statement came out barely louder than a whisper, but Wilson heard it clear and true.

Something was not right.

The next morning, Wilson lugged his body out of his room and left for work, not bothering to wake House, whom he knew always slept in anyway.

He came back in the evening to an empty house. House's room door was shut, and he knocked on it, "House? You there?"

There was no answer.

Wilson pushed open the door. The room was pristine, the bed was made. It hadn't even been slept in. And there was no sign of House. Wilson spotted a piece of paper on the desk. He picked it up with trembling hands.

_I'm sorry, _was all it said. And attached was a cheque for 31,892 dollars and 83 cents.


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson slipped into the bar and scanned the crowd. No sign of him. He sighed and headed back out into the snow, heading to the next bar.

It had been four months since House disappeared. Each night after work, Wilson would drive around for an hour, trying to spot a tall limping man with a cane. The check was still safe in his drawer at home, uncashed, together with House's medical license.

When he first saw the check, he had been _pissed_. Pissed that House was once again running away from his problems. But a week later, he realized that the _I'm sorry_ was not for running away, or simply for having broken Wilson's wrist years back. It was a sorry for the years that had gone by – the Tritter saga, Amber's death, the overdoses, the reliance and burden he had placed on Wilson, the stealing of food, the arguments, _everything_. Gregory House felt that he didn't deserve to be the friend of James Wilson.

And that made Wilson all the more determined to find him.

* * *

><p>Four months dragged into a year, and still Wilson hoped that one day he would be able to find House. He sat on the couch, nursing a beer with the TV a background murmur when his phone rang.<p>

"Wilson, get over to O'Malley's at Cross Street! I just drove past and saw House going in," Chase's accented tenor came over the phone. He knew Wilson had been searching for House, and he too had secretly been keeping an eye out for his ex-mentor.

Wilson sped all the way to Cross Street. It was all the way the other side of town, a seedy area that he had never been to. He felt his heart speed up at the anticipation and apprehension at finally, _finally_ finding House as he drew closer to his destination. As he entered the dark and dank bar, a haunting melody floated through the air, and Wilson knew whom it was before he even looked.

House sat at the piano onstage, hands flying across the piano as he coaxed the melancholy melody out of the old battered instrument.

Wilson sat at the bar and watched as House poured his feelings into the tune – Wilson could sense the palpable sadness and regret in the tune in his very bones. It was a beautiful melody, but one borne out of suffering and misery. Music really was the window to House's soul, and through it, Wilson could see the unsaid apologies and regrets of Gregory House.

A disgruntled chap interrupted the moment. "Aw fuck, man! We're here to listen to some good tunes!" And yells of agreement were echoed through out the bar.

House stopped abruptly, as though jerked out of a trance. He stared at his hands for a while before launching into a trashy, rowdy tune to appease the crude crowd.

Wilson leaned over the bar and spoke to the bartender, "Who's that?"

The bartender looked to where Wilson was gesturing. "House? He comes in here 2-3 nights a week, plays a set or two. He's playing over at Rhonda's and Spark's too. Not bad for a gimp eh."

Wilson waited as House played two hours of rowdy bar tunes. Finally, the set ended, and Wilson watched as House rose to his feet unsteadily. He wavered on the spot for a good few seconds before finally putting barely any weight on his right foot and limping painfully off the stage with his left arm around his abdomen.

Wilson frowned. House had lost weight; his shirt was practically hanging off his bony shoulders. He rose from his seat, and moved to intercept House before he slipped away from him again. He walked out the door and into the chilly night air.

"House."

House stiffened as he heard the voice behind him. He lurched forward, and began stumbling towards his rented apartment a few blocks away, his eyes fixedly on the ground before him.

"Come back, House." Wilson walked alongside House, just like one of their many usual strolls through the hospital.

House remained silent, as though ignoring Wilson would make him disappear.

"House. Stop. Let's talk."

No matter Wilson's efforts and questions, House did not utter a single word. He just continued walking, ignoring his friend. Wilson reached out to grab his forearm, but he fiercely shrugged it away, nearly losing his balance.

Wilson watched as House pulled himself painfully up the flight of stairs of his apartment. He was breathing heavily by the time he reached the top, his face pale and gaunt as he leaned against the wall. House finally turned and looked back at him.

"Go home, Wilson."

* * *

><p>House stumbled into the street, gasping at the cool air. His leg had been giving him hell the whole day, and it was starting to spasm. He gripped his thigh, digging his fingers in. He knew what was coming next, and he needed to get home fast. Hopefully walk it off in the journey home. Climb the stairs without falling. Get the heating pad. Try not to vomit the ibuprofen up. Wait for it to subside. Try not to get lost in the pain.<p>

Wilson watched as House lurched up the street, gait even unsteadier than usual as he put almost all of his weight on the cane instead of his right foot. He was sitting on the steps outside House's rented apartment, as he had been doing for the past five days ever since he had managed to find House.

Watching House struggle so visibly was a painful reminder of the times when he had doubted and ignored House's pain, dismissing it as psychosomatic or the imaginings of a drug addict; and when he had been so cruelly ignorant of House's struggle to stay clean after Mayfield, even arguing with him over the use of the bathtub which House had used to alleviate his pains. Looking back now in hindsight, Wilson could barely believe his own ignorance and cruelty towards House's pain, which was very real.

House had to stop two times and lean against the wall, breathing hard, before finally reaching his apartment steps. He immediately tried to slow his respirations down, trying to mask his pain from Wilson. He swallowed hard to prevent the nausea that swam up him from winning.

"Don't you –" House paused, taking a gasp of air, "Don't you have a… a home of your own to go to?"

Wilson frowned at how House gripped the cane so tight his knuckles were white and trembling. He stood up slowly.

"Cramp?"

"No." House said. _A bit too forcefully_, Wilson noted.

He switched his cane to his left hand, and began hauling himself up the stairs one step at a time, right leg buckling whenever he put weight on it. Sharp pain radiated from his thigh and lanced up his spine. Wilson moved forward to help him, but House glared at him.

On the fifth step, House's right leg gave way entirely, and he fell hard onto his hands and knees, with an involuntary grunt, cane clattering down to the bottom of the stairs. He huddled there on the stairs, doubled over in agony as his hands dug into his thigh, trying to stop the spasm's unrelenting grip.

Wilson immediately appeared by his side, alarmed. He pushed gently on House's shoulders, guiding him to sit down on the steps. By now, House was too lost in the pain to protest, and was instead focusing on breathing and not passing out. Wilson pulled House's hands away from his thigh, and placed his own warm hands over the jagged canyon of a scar. He could feel the muscles below rippling and twitching rapidly, choking the bone beneath. He dug his fingers in and pressed against the rock-hard muscles, trying to knead the knots out. They were so rigid that his fingers began to hurt.

"Where's your Vicodin, House?"

There was a long pause before House could answer. "Off the _-gasp-_ Vicodin."

"Ibuprofen?"

"Won't..." House's voice faltered, "…help now."

Seeing how House struggled to speak, Wilson decided to postpone all conversation. He continued pushing at the knots in House's muscle, eliciting pained grunts and, at particularly bad ones, groans. Twenty minutes later, Wilson felt the muscle begin to relax. House gave a sigh of relief, and leaned back into the stairs with his eyes closed.

"Why do you keep coming, Wilson?"

"Why are you running away, House?"

A long pause ensued as House contemplated how the hell to get the message through to a seemingly dense Wilson.

"You don't need me in your life."

"PPTH needs our diagnostician back. I need my _friend_ back. "

House ignored the last statement. "The kids are good."

"Not good enough."

"They've handled the past six years without me. They're fine. Don't you have somewhere else to go instead of coming here all the time?"

"Why are you punishing yourself, House?"

"I'm just removing myself from the equation. Isn't that what you wanted years back?"

Wilson cringed at the memory of his cruel words after Amber's death. "Well, now I want you back."

"You're the wonder boy oncologist. You don't deserve a misanthropic bastard like me as your friend." House muttered. And then he added so quietly Wilson could barely hear the words, "You'll be happier without me. Everyone is."

"_No I won't be_. I want my friend back. I want the bastard who never gave up to stop wallowing in self-pity and self-imposed misery to come back and start solving puzzles and saving lives. I want to have my best friend who would drug me and risk his career to read out my speech about euthanasia, back."

House remained silent as he contemplated Wilson's outburst. After a while, he opened one eye and peered at Wilson.

"Why do I have an idiot friend like you?"

The scathing tone in which it was delivered would have caused anyone to interpret it as an insult, but Wilson knew that it was Housian praise and gratitude. _Yes he's back_, thought Wilson.

"We don't get to choose our friends."

A ghost of a smile appeared on House's face.

"You're really an idiot you know."

"Yeah, I am. I still haven't cashed that check."

They exchanged glances, all the words unspoken but understood as blue eyes met chocolate brown ones. House pursed his lips and rolled his eyes.

"Now are you gonna help me up or what?"

"Thought you would never ask. Let's get you limping home."


	3. Chapter 3

House sat in the dean's office in the same chair he had sat in so many times, so many years ago. Cuddy's position had been filled by a middle-aged, matronly beast, Dr Sandra Jones. It felt weird being in this office again and knowing Cuddy would not strut in anymore. He missed her.

"So Dr House, welcome back." Dr Jones' voice cut through his thoughts. He gave a curt nod. He tuned out as she gave the usual I'm-in-charge-so-don't-mess-with-me diatribe.

"… I also understand you hate clinic duty, so I have a proposition to make."

At that, House switched his attention back to Jones. Anything to get out of clinic duty.

"Three hours off clinic duty for two one-hour lectures for med students each week" Jones was well aware of House's diagnostic genius, and felt it was better spent educating up-and-coming doctors. Not to mention the fact that House's clinic-evading skills were legendary.

House didn't even have to think about it. "You've got yourself a deal."

House left the office, feeling empty. He missed her.

* * *

><p>Wilson met House outside Jones' office, and together they made their way across the clinic to the elevators. It was a familiar sight for all the nurses and doctors in the clinic – one they hadn't seen for years but in the end, felt right at home.<p>

"So what did Jones say?"

"She's one tough bitch. She offered three hours off clinic duty for two lectures a week. Of course I took it."

"Some things never change."

"But everything else has," House said quietly.

* * *

><p>House pushed open the door to the differential room, and limped in. Before him sat Masters, Chase, Foreman and Taub around the conference table. Thirteen had left the hospital two months ago, her Huntington's having deteriorated rapidly.<p>

Masters immediately squeaked, "Good to see you back, Dr House."

House paused, and looked at each one of them. It was like nothing had changed. Taub's nose still took up half his face, Foreman was still bald, Chase was still ridiculously good-looking, and Masters still had awful fashion choices. But he knew better than that. Subtle physical changes - Taub had eye bags from dealing with two boys, Foreman now carried more authority with him after heading Diagnostics for four years, Chase was less cocky and more mature, while Masters now had more confidence – were a hint of how everything had changed. He nodded curtly, and walked over to the coffee machine. He found his usual red mug winking at him from the sink. _Wilson_, thought House.

Chase cleared his throat to ease the awkward atmosphere, "We've got a case. 57 year old white male presented with swollen joints and seizures…"

House poured himself a cup of coffee, but a wave of nausea prevented him from savoring it. Grimacing slightly and swallowing the bile that threatened to rise from his stomach, House discreetly poured the coffee down the sink as he pressed his hand against his abdomen to try alleviate the dull ache that had been present for the past two weeks.

He turned his attention back to the differential, prepared to throw in some of his taunts and insults, and tried to pretend that it was easy to slip back into the routine he had abandoned years ago.

* * *

><p>"What do you mean she's not going to approve the procedure? Does she want him to die?" House shouted into the phone angrily as he began making his way towards Cuddy's office.<p>

He barged through the doors of Cuddy's office, prepared to make a huge scene and insult her for her lack of medical acumen in disapproving the procedure, only to see Jones glaring at him as she conversed with a donor over the phone. Right, it was now Jones' office, he thought, as a weird feeling settled over him.

He turned to leave, but was stopped by Jones' angry voice as she hung up the phone.

"Dr House. I know how you used to work with my predecessor, but this is unacceptable with me! I am your superior! That will be five more clinic hours for you this week. And you better do them. And no, I am not going to approve the procedure because it is based on a _hunch_ you have. I don't believe in hunches, no matter how good you are at your job, so get me some proof."

House paused with his hand on the doorknob. He nodded, and then limped out quietly with no arguments. It finally hit him hard - everything really had changed.

* * *

><p>"Where's House?" Wilson popped his head into the differential room.<p>

"Walking the circuit," Chase looked up for a moment, getting the message across to Wilson – _bad pain day_ – before delving back into the intense discussion. The patient had deteriorated rapidly over the past three days, and time was running out. Not to mention that Jones had passed them another two cases – gone were the days where the diagnostics department handled one case at a time.

Over the past three days, the team had barely left the hospital, instead relying on copious amounts of coffee and hasty naps to get by. House had not gone home at all, instead choosing to doze in his ottoman or lie on the floor gazing at the three whiteboards containing symptoms of their patients. The whole team was looking worse for wear, and permanently nursed cups of coffee.

Wilson stepped into the room, and waited for House to finish his round around the floor. Sure enough, House hobbled round the corner and popped his head into the room. "Do a brain biopsy for seizing dude, chelate that girl who can't move and pump Mr Can't Breathe with steroids."

Before the team could argue with him about the absurdity of all three courses of action, House was out the door, and resuming on his circuit around the floor, trying to walk off the sharp pangs of pain in his thigh. Wilson slipped out the door and joined him.

"Have you had lunch? It's past two." Wilson knew that House tended to skip meals, especially when he got stressed with a case he couldn't solve. And this time, he had three cases to contend with, not to mention the fact that he was pale and gaunt, and had been for some time.

"Not hungry," grunted House.

"You still gotta eat."

"No."

"Come on, I'll get you a –"

Wilson's cajoling was cut short as House ducked into the toilet, dropped to his knees over the toilet bowl and vomited out a small amount of bile. Wilson followed in but waited outside the stall. House emerged from the stall, and seeing the concern on Wilson's face, acquiesced, "Bad donut."

"Are you sure? This has been going on for the past two days, House."

"I ate the donut two days ago, alright?" House said sharply as he leaned over the sink, not looking at Wilson.

Wilson looked at his friend, who had dark shadows under his eyes; his hands trembling as they gripped the sink. Knowing not to probe any further, he watched his friend leave the bathroom.

He whispered, "What's going on, House? What are you not telling me?"

* * *

><p>House made his way to the lecture theatre, about to deliver the first of his many lectures about Diagnostics and Infectious Diseases. He couldn't escape this even though he was exhausted from the third consecutive day of not going home. Jones would give him hell if he skipped his first scheduled lecture, and he wasn't quite sure he wanted to piss her off yet.<p>

He stepped into the hall, which was filled to the brim.

It had been more than ten years since House delivered lectures and speeches, the only exception having been when Cuddy forced him to cover for some idiotic doctor who had lead poisoning from a ceramic mug his daughter made him, and didn't even know it. Then, he had started with only a few students in the hall, but as the lecture progressed and news got out that the renowned Dr House was actually delivering a lecture, and a good one at that, the hall had filled rapidly, even attracting doctors and nurses.

It was therefore no surprise that the hall was now fully filled with medical students and interns who were eager, and privileged, to learn from the world-famous diagnostician.

House limped up the stage, painfully aware of the dozens of eager eyes on him watching him struggle with the steps. He collapsed into the chair, trying to hide how winded he was at the short trudge up the few steps. He spun his cane in his hands. He took a deep breath.

"The first and most important thing you must know is this fundamental truth – everybody lies…"

* * *

><p>Wilson unlocked the door to the loft, and stepped in. It was dark, the only light coming from the flickering television.<p>

House and the team had finally managed to clear all three cases, though one patient died without them finding a diagnosis. It had taken them a grueling five days. The entire team had looked like walking zombies by the end of it, and Wilson had had to give House a lift home earlier during lunch as he looked like he was about to keel over any moment from sheer exhaustion. Needless to say, House was also affected by the loss of a patient so soon after his return to the hospital, and had raised his walls up, clamming shut.

Wilson found House dozing on the couch, pillows stuffed behind his back and under his right leg. In front of House were a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich and a bottle of beer. Wilson sighed. House probably had collapsed on the couch after getting home and eaten nothing else substantial, as usual. He probably hadn't even woken up once.

He headed to the kitchen and began to prepare dinner, losing himself in the therapeutic process of dicing, chopping and mixing. It was his stress relief after a long day of facing terminally ill patients.

"House." Wilson leaned over him, shaking his shoulder gently. "Wake up, let's have dinner."

House awoke with a slight grunt, and wearily dragged himself to the dining table and tucked in to the pasta that Wilson had whipped up. Wilson, seeing how House was about to fall asleep in his plate of food and was in no condition to fully converse with him, kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation about the going-ons of the hospital, with House only occasionally smirking or making a snark comment about some idiotic doctor or nurse.

It was moments like these Wilson enjoyed the most, when he and House were best friends with a perfectly normal friendship, with all the misery and blemishes of the past decade forgotten momentarily. Even in the hospital, hearing House throw his ball against the wall or thump his cane on the floor in his office, disrupting Wilson's concentration, was something Wilson welcomed again. Wilson smiled. It was good to have his best friend back again.

Wilson smothered a laugh as House's chin slipped off the hand that had been under it, causing House to comically jerk awake. House shot him a death glare.

"Go to bed, House. You don't want to have pasta sauce coating your face."

Yet another glare, and a "Good night to you too, Wilson" as House got to his feet and ambled down the hallway into his room. His plate of pasta was still three quarters full.

* * *

><p>Wilson was awoken in the middle of the night by heavy footsteps and the thumping of a cane. He blearily turned to look at the clock. 3.22am. House was rushing to the bathroom yet <em>again<em>. This food poisoning thing was taking far too long to clear up. _If_ it was food poisoning, Wilson frowned. He had a nagging suspicion that House was not telling him something, and that it was more serious. For a doctor, House seemed to have surprising lack of self-awareness about his own body. He resolved to grill House about it thoroughly tomorrow morning.

Wilson turned over and burrowed deeper into his blankets, waiting to drift off into sleep again. His blank mind suddenly registered that House had stopped vomiting, and instead a long string of feeble curses ghosted through the air. Then House was calling thickly, "W'lson?" before starting to retch again.

Wilson crawled out of bed and lumbered to the toilet, barely able to open his eyes in the bright yellow lighting of the toilet. Then he saw a bright red substance ejecting out of House's mouth, as he stood hunched over the toilet bowl. Suddenly Wilson was wide-awake.

"House… What the hell?"

House had no reply as he was overcome with a violent bout of coughing that led to yet another round of retching.

"Get down on the floor," Wilson tugged on House's elbow, guiding him down to the floor. House was white as a sheet, visibly shaking and sweating as he gasped for deep breaths, and looked like he was about to pass out any moment. House allowed Wilson to guide him down to the floor and he slowly knelt down beside the toilet bowl. His leg was positively screaming.

"We're going to the hospital."

"No… I'm fine." But House's body proved otherwise as soon as those words left his mouth. He began dry heaving – there was simply nothing left to vomit out.

Wilson felt the worry of the past few days bubble and boil over. He towered over House, hands on his hips, and firmly said, "You have been down with 'food poisoning' for the past _five_ days, House. You're vomiting _blood._ Something's up. We're going to the hospital. No arguments."

There was no protest from House this time. And that scared Wilson even more.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews, please? <strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**It's never easy writing a conversation between House and Wilson - thanks to their complex but amazing friendship - especially in the situation that this takes place in. It's really up to one's imagination how it might turn out, and I hope that what I imagined is something you can feel and understand as well. **

**The House/Cuddy in this story will be coming soon, I just need to be able to bring Cuddy in at a really good time, and I don't want to rush that. **

**Would appreciate your reviews! **

* * *

><p>House felt the darkness flitting away as he gradually regained consciousness. His eyelids fluttered. He fought open his eyes to find Wilson standing at the foot of his bed, arms folded around his chest.<p>

_That's it. He knows. _

"The frequent bouts of vomiting caused a tear in your esophageal lining," Wilson's voice was hollow. "And you had the beginnings of a stomach ulcer from the ibuprofen and not eating regularly."

Wilson's voice began to rise in volume and agitation, "How long have you not been eating regularly because of the nausea, House?"

House closed his eyes, suddenly feeling so weary from the burden he had been carrying for the past few weeks.

"When did you find out? After you came back? Before?" Wilson slammed his fist down on the hospital table in a rare display of anger. "I want an answer."

The room was deathly silent.

"Two days before you found me." House quietly said.

"So it's been what – three, nearly four weeks?" Wilson flung his hands into the air in frustration. "Did it not occur to you that these precious few weeks could have been spent on treatment instead of avoiding the issue like you always do? Or letting your best friend –who just so happens to be an _oncologist_ – know?"

"I…"

"I'm starting you on chemo and radiation immediately. We'll do a seven week – "

"I don't want treatment." House abruptly cut Wilson off as he opened his eyes to look at Wilson.

"_What_?"

"It's locally advanced, Wilson. You know the odds better than I do. It's _terminal_. You're the oncologist."

Wilson stared at the person in front of him. That person lying in the hospital bed couldn't be House. House never admitted defeat or gave up. The only time his body had ever betrayed him was with the one-in-a-million infarction, but other than that – experimental drugs, heart attacks, shootings, bus crashes, deep brain stimulation, tumors, operating on his own leg – House had done it all. Each time, he had bounced back up perfectly healthy. And now he was giving up?

Wilson laughed nervously. House had to be jerking him around.

"You can't be serious."

"Try me."

Wilson tried to fight down a rising panic as he paced around the room. "It might give you months more. Advances have been made in the treatment of pancreatic cancer - hell, _I _conducted some of these studies, and the odds are improving!"

"They're not good enough," House stated simply, as if that was a good enough reason for giving up.

Wilson knew House only trusted statistics and facts, but this was bordering on irrationality. "Isn't it good if you get months more to live?"

"That's only a possibility. I'll still die anyway. And quality over quantity - those months will be spent feeling like crap," House mumbled.

"At least you will be alive!"

"And being a burden." That statement was added as an afterthought so soft Wilson nearly didn't catch it. But he did.

"You don't think you deserve to live?"

House snapped like a string that had been too taut for too long.

"I don't want to live in pain, okay? I don't want to lose my hair or not even be able to wipe my own ass after I crap! I don't want to live in misery or more pain for the next few months when ultimately, _I'm still going to die_! It's already been postponed multiple times."

House took a deep breath and continued.

"And I don't want to make you take care of me for the few months I get to remain on this planet – no one deserves to have to do that. Much less you, Jimmy. I don't need to spend the last few months of my life being fawned and fussed over, and you don't need to waste your time and energy on a dying person! Which you will do because you are a goddamn _saint_!

"You… you don't think you deserve that? Everyone does!"

"I've done too much crap. Everyone's left, Wilson. Why not you?"

And there it was, what Wilson had suspected all along – House's true opinion about friendship or love. That it was almost a transaction in which both parties had to mutually benefit. Even if he did believe in it, he did not believe he deserved it. The low self-worth, which in House's case seemed more like self-loathing, that had simmered under the surface for so many years finally culminated and revealed in this confrontation.

"No you have not –"

"Really, Wilson? Who are we kidding? I drove Stacy away with my pure bastardry, I nearly caused you to lose your license, I fake prescriptions, I killed your girlfriend, I wrecked Cuddy's house when Rachel could have been in it, I was a fugitive for two years, and you tell me I deserve it?"

"You did not kill my girlfriend!" Wilson nearly screeched. This conversation was not going where he intended it to go.

"Yes I did. I got drunk in the middle of the day, and – "

"You underwent deep brain stimulation to try save her. You risked your brain, the most important thing to you!"

"But she still died." House insisted. He took a deep breath, and finally said what he had kept to himself all those years back. "You would have been happy with her, you know. She would have been the fourth and final Mrs Wilson."

It had been nearly ten years. Wilson had no idea that House still harbored that guilt and regret.

"Just let it go, Wilson. Just let _me_ go." House muttered.

"I can't, House! I can't just sit by and watch you wait to die! I've already made a mistake losing Danny, I can't make another one by not doing anything for my best friend who is dying!" Wilson was full out yelling now, attracting the stares of passers-by. _Stupid glass walls_, he thought as he stalked over to draw the blinds.

"That's just it, Wilson. I don't want you to do this out of fucking _guilt_ or obligation!"

"No, I'm doing this because you're my best friend, and –"

And then it all suddenly clicked together in Wilson's head. Where this conversation was headed. What it was _supposed_ to be about, but was not. Because Wilson forgot that he was dealing with the king of deflection. He shook his head.

" - Ohhhh no you don't, House. Forget about me. You don't get to deflect by trying to make this all about me. We're supposed to be talking about _you_."

House rolled his eyes. "I'm not deflecting – "

"Really, House?" Wilson walked over, and sat down on the chair next to House's bed. "Why are you giving up? For your whole life, you've been a fighter, going against the rules. Why are you giving up now?" A hint of pleading found it's way into Wilson's voice.

House looked at Wilson. There was only one person in the whole world who could read him like a book, and that was Wilson. He turned away from him to gaze at some far corner of the room. He leaned his head back onto the pillows, all the fight leaving him as the adrenaline of their shouting match wore off.

His voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm just so tired, Wilson," he admitted quietly, "I just want it all to _stop_."

Wilson opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say. He looked at the man in the bed before him. So many lines etched in his face, a weariness of the world dulling the once-bright and lively blue eyes.

"Shut your mouth. You look like a goldfish," mumbled House in an attempt to erase the words that had slipped out of his mouth.

Wilson wasn't having any of it. He finally found his voice, and he persisted, "So you're giving up? Without a fight? At all?"

House closed his eyes in an attempt to hide the tears that now threatened to form.

"Dying's easy, it's living that's hard. You told me that. For once, I want to take the easy way out. It's too goddamn hard."

"Oh no, no no no no. Gregory House never takes the easy way out. You never give up! Not even in the face of the most difficult cases, not even when life throws you the worst things! And you shouldn't, not now!"

Wilson was desperate now. House was a stubborn bastard, and once he fixed his mind on something, it was nearly impossible to dissuade him. But Wilson had to.

House's thoughts flitted back to the time when he was in jail, when he realized that he was tired of running away, tired of finding answers to give himself hope. He had never realized that his quest for answers had been a quest for hope. He still remembered the exact moment he had realized it – it was Thirteen who showed him that, years ago.

"My whole life, Wilson. I'm nearly sixty… I've been trying to find answers. I get them, but so what? I'm tired of constantly trying to find them, trying to swim against the current. I'm tired of dealing with the pain."

House's voice took on a dreamy quality as he recalled a particular conversation that took place on a bus.

"_I don't want to be in pain, I don't want to be miserable_."

It was the one secret between House and Amber, confessed when he was treading the thin line between life and death. And here he was now, confessing it to his one true friend as he faced death yet again. First, Amber, and now Wilson – both determined for him to hang on in the world of the living.

Wilson's felt his heart turn ice-cold. He remembered the day he accused House of wanting to be miserable and alone forever. He never knew how wrong his words were till now.

"You… You can't do this, House."

"I want to."

"You can't just walk away. You… you just _can't_."

House's lips curled up in a small smile. "You're a good friend, James. You really are. No one else could put up with my shit. I owe you a lot."

_Oh fuck_, thought Wilson. _Now he's talking like he's on his deathbed. _

Wilson's temper flared and he snapped, "You don't get to call me James now, House. You only get to call me that when you're on your deathbed." He paused, and his voice softened immediately. "If you really think of me as your best friend, please, _please_ don't give up."

House was quiet.

Wilson was babbling now, panicking. "You can't just decide to escape and leave the rest of us behind to suffer. You can't leave _me_ behind to live with the guilt that I could have done something, but didn't, because you chose to take the easy way out!"

The room was so silent you could hear a pin drop. Wilson could only hear his own heart thudding so hard as he tried to salvage the situation. Suddenly, he knew what he had to say.

"You have to fight this, House. Please… Take the chance, do it for me. Years of stealing my food, me being your personal bank account – you owe it to me to at least _try_. There are sick people out there who need you to treat them, doctors who want and need to learn from you; I want you to hang around for a while longer… We need you around. I need you around. You owe me. You owe me way too much. And I want you to try."

"For what, Wilson? There's no way out. So it can be said that I fought the good fight?"

"That _we_ fought the good fight, House. Even if it's against the inevitable."

House looked at his best friend who unashamedly had tears shining in his brown eyes. He had to admit that when he had decided to wave the white flag, he didn't think about how Wilson would feel or react. It tore at him that Wilson would feel all that. He didn't deserve that, not after years of devoted friendship.

And he _did_ owe Wilson a lot.

There was a reason why House always listened to Wilson. It was a well-known fact that Wilson was probably the only person in the whole world who could get through to House. Wilson's friendship was probably the most precious relationship House had ever had, though he hadn't had many to compare it against. Wilson was almost always on his side, and had given him so much over the years. And House would do anything for their friendship and for Wilson too. House didn't trust or build relationships easily, but when he actually did, he devoted his whole heart. He would do it for Wilson, just like he had agreed to deep brain stimulation.

And so, like the many other times in their friendship, House found his resolve fading; he found himself listening to Wilson, giving in.

"It's going to be hard, Wilson." House's voice was small, like a young child afraid of the pain he knew would come.

Wilson knew he had gotten his message through to his best friend, and that he would fight this. He reached for House's forearm, and squeezed it gently. The number of times they actually hugged or made physical contact with each other for comfort during the entire course of their friendship could probably be counted on two hands. It was just not their sort of thing.

But this situation was different. Everything had changed. Everything was going to be different from this point on.

"I know."


	5. Chapter 5

House closed his eyes and tried to lose himself in the music blasting in his ears. He tried to ignore the central line snaking out of his chest, the clear liquid travelling along it and into his body. It would be over in half an hour. About seven to eight songs later.

Wilson had thrown himself into planning House's treatment, insisting that he get a central line for greater convenience (though the unspoken understanding was how there would be many, too many cycles and courses), running him through the stages and cycles and what to expect - _I'm a doctor too_, House had snapped -, why he believed that there was a chance, showing him various studies about improved odds. Watching the normally unflappable oncologist worry himself into a frenzy was just a reminder to House of why there was a rule that doctors shouldn't treat their loved ones – if he could be considered as one.

"_We're going to do the blood tests regularly to keep an eye on your liver and kidnesy," murmured Wilson as he pushed the needle into House's elbow. _

_House raised his eyebrows. "No moralizing about the Vicodin." He looked at Wilson briefly before turning his head away. "Doesn't matter now anyway." _

"_Don't say that." _

"_Optimism's not gonna get me anywhere." _

_Wilson pursed his lips and concentrated on drawing House's blood for the tests._

"Are… are you going to tell Cuddy?"

_House immediately stiffened. "No." _

_Wilson sighed. Just what he had expected. "Why? You've known each other for twenty, nearly thirty years. Even if you two aren't together anymore, there's still decades of friendship. Tell her, House." _

"_Us not being together is the understatement of the year, Wilson." _

"_She deserves to know." _

"_There is no need for her to know." House firmly said as he raised his eyes. He struggled to sit up straighter. "Don't tell her, Wilson. Just… don't." _

_Wilson could have been mistaken, but there was perhaps a hint of pleading in House's voice. He stared at his friend, who had averted his gaze once again. Something in him told him not to probe any further. He nodded his head. "Alright then." _

Dr Jones slipped in the door to House's room. He was asleep, but the music blasting through his earphones could be heard clearly. She looked intently at him as she settled down in the chair next to him.

He was an enigma, a mystery to most people. She prided herself on being able to read and understand most, if not all, people. Raising three kids had placed her in good stead in handling people. But he had always been a mystery to her, even after having worked in the same hospital as him for the past decade. Their paths rarely crossed – he asHead of Diagnostics and she as Head of Cardiology, but his reputation went far and wide. But she sensed there was something more to Dr Gregory House than the supposed jerk who never turned up to department head meetings, popped pills, and had driven a car into her predecessor's house.

The music stopped, and House's eyes fluttered open. His eyes focused on her immediately. She nodded a greeting, and cut to the chase.

"Dr Wilson came to my office this morning." Her voice was gentle.

House resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and remarked sarcastically, "And told you about how I am now a patient of his."

"You can take as much time off as you need to –"

"No," House interrupted, "I want to continue working –"

"But your course of treatment is intensive. You're going to be immuno-compromised and - "

"I have an office where I can rest, I need to come here for the chemo anyway–"

"It's for your own good, Dr House. When you recover, you can come back - "

"We both know I might not." House interjected softly. Their quick-fire exchange ended abruptly with that statement.

Dr Jones stared into the cerulean eyes of House. The steel of resolve that was always there was still there, but it was a hint of resignation that hid behind it that struck her.

"Let me continue working," mumbled House, "please."

Dr Jones cocked her head as she tried to read into his request. It was, she surmised, a desperate want for things to remain as constant as possible in the face of so much possible change. And he wanted to spend as much time as possible at work before he really couldn't anymore. Dr Jones sighed inwardly. She really didn't know what to do with him. She had accepted this job when he was still on the run, and was not fully prepared to have to deal with him. She admired Dr Cuddy for her tenacity in dealing with him, though it had ultimately spiraled out of control. It was known that House was always pushing the limits, both the hospital's and his own. Tales of how he had gone all out to try save Dr Wilson's girlfriend, or how he would resort to drastic methods to get his answers to his cases, had not been forgotten. In fact, they were practically legends at PPTH, and maybe around the world. He was an intriguing figure of the medical community – though he seemed to shun the world, there was always an interest in him.

Looking at him awkwardly fidget in front of her, obviously uncomfortable with his earlier request, Dr Jones found herself relenting, not unlike how she used to relent to her kids when they were stubborn teenagers. She could see how much the job meant to him, how it was the only thing left for him.

"Don't push yourself too hard."

House raised his eyebrows. He thought he would have to grovel a bit more. He nodded curtly, gratitude flashing on his face momentarily.

"Well I guess this means no more clinic duty for you," Dr Jones deadpanned wryly, as she tried to steer the conversation away from territory obviously uncomfortable for House. His lips twitched.

She stood up. Her job was done. "You can fight this, Dr House. Clinic duty _will_ come back to wreck terror on your life."

_Or maybe it never will again. _

They exchanged the briefest of glances, a ghost of a sad smile on House's lips. Too bad that as doctors, they both knew what to expect. Reassurances were useless to doctors. Only the cold hard truth of statistics and science could provide comfort, though in this situation, it was lacking.

* * *

><p>The team watched as House rose from his seat and limped painfully and haltingly into his office after he had ordered them to conduct more tests. The blinds were drawn shut, but they could all hear the telltale creak as House lowered himself into the ottoman. He had gone back to work barely hours after getting discharged, thanks to two particularly tricky cases that they had accepted and a particularly mule-headed streak in himself. Masters' hesitant expressions of concern about how he should take a few days off or at least go home to get more rest only elicited a glare and a snappy retort of how he had already been resting in the hospital bed for the past three days.<p>

The differential had been long and tough, with almost everyone heatedly arguing for his or her opinions. As it progressed, though, House had grown visibly winded, his elaborate insults and remarks becoming shorter and shorter before ceasing all together. He had then abruptly ended the differential, ordering a multitude of tests.

The team exchanged glances before shrugging it off – House was probably still weak. He was getting older, and probably couldn't bounce back up like he used to.

* * *

><p>"House? I got the result of the biopsy back." Chase peeked in the door to House's office as the rest of the team waited in the conference room, results to the various tests sprawled in front of them as they began to discuss the new information they had.<p>

House didn't stir. Chase noticed the sheen of sweat on House's forehead, and the slight shiver that ran through his body every once in a while. He frowned, and walked over to House. He placed his hand on House's shoulder, about to shake him gently when he realized how _warm_ House was. He hurriedly placed the back of his hand to House's forehead, and confirmed it – House was running a fever. Probably over-exertion.

Chase sighed and headed back into the conference room.

"House is running a fever, let's continue without him. I'll let Wilson know."

Taub spoke up, "Are you sure? House will kill us if we rat him out to Wilson."

Years of working under House had imbued in Chase a grudging sort of care and concern for his mentor, who had grown to somewhat be a father figure to him. Though he would never outwardly show it. Chase had been under House the longest, and thus probably understood him the most. He had been there through almost everything, including the breakthrough pain episodes House had before Cameron and Foreman had arrived, and the various life-and-death incidents that House had endured.

He stared at Taub icily, "House just got discharged, and really should be resting at home. We'll continue without him."

* * *

><p>"Come in." Wilson barely looked up as he heard the knock on the door.<p>

"Wilson?" Chase walked in. "House is running a fever, and I thought you might want to bring him home. Probably some over-exertion."

Wilson put his pen down and ran his hands over his face. _House_. All that paperwork had sucked him, and he had forgotten all about checking on House. Wilson checked his watch. Eight hours since House received the first treatment. He rose from his seat.

"I'll bring him home." Wilson started packing all his things. "Probably a side effect from the Gemzar. Fever usually sets on a few hours after."

The second statement was a half-muttered reassurance to himself, but Chase heard it clear and true.

"_Gemzar_? Why does House need Gemzar?"

Wilson stopped shuffling the papers on his desk, and stared at Chase in surprise. "He didn't tell the team?"

"Tell us what?"

_As usual. _Wilson sighed. His hand instinctively started rubbing the back of his neck. All his oncologist skills at breaking the bad news to relatives of his patients seemed irrelevant when it was to House's team that he was breaking the news. They were all doctors. No words of comfort or hope could fool them.

"I'll talk to the whole team together."

Wilson walked into the conference room after stopping by House's office to check on him. He slumped down in House's usual seat.

"You remember that bad bout of food poisoning House was going through?" Wilson tried to keep his voice steady. "He lied. He found out days before I found him that he had an unresectable tumor in the pancreas. It looks to be locally advanced and …"

As Wilson elaborated upon House's condition. Masters looked to be on the verge of tears, while Chase had a look of sorrow painted on his face. Even Taub, who didn't care much for House, looked slightly upset, and the usually stoic Foreman's brows had furrowed with the news.

Wilson looked at all their faces, and paused. He knew House wouldn't be happy with him telling the team so much, but he had a reason for doing so. There was nothing he could do about House's adamant decision to continue working, and so he needed the team's help.

"House, being the stubborn ass that he is, has decided not to go on sick leave – "

"What? Why? He's not going to be able to work with all the side-effects." Taub interrupted.

Wilson hesitated. He rubbed his temples, lowering his head momentarily before he raised it again. He looked beseechingly into the eyes of the doctors seated before him. "This job is all House has left," he said quietly, "and he loves it much. He might not have much time left with it, and he wants to continue doing it for as long as he can." His voice was trembling by now. He _did _know what the odds were. Though he would never admit it to House. But he needed the team to know how much House needed to continue working, to keep his mind occupied instead of lying at home and waiting for the chemo and cancer to ravage him.

"The least we can do is let him do what he needs to do. So I would appreciate it if you could all keep an eye out for him. Discreetly, of course."

The team was silent, as they contemplated Wilson's words. One by one, they nodded. Masters first, then Chase. Then Foreman, then Taub, both of them rather reluctantly taking on this additional burden.

Foreman interjected, "Does Dr Cuddy know about this?" They all knew about House and Cuddy's relationship, and even after Cuddy had left for New York, they had kept in touch with her occasionally.

"No. And he would rather her not know." Wilson sighed. This was not what he wanted at all. He wanted Cuddy to come back and be with his best friend, though he knew that she was still hurt from what he had done. "We'll respect his wishes. The last thing he needs is to lash out at us."

The team nodded again, a collective agreement to keep their mouths shut. An awkward silence fell over the table as the burden of House's illness weighed them down.

"Well… It's not like he usually spends that much time outside his office, or with the patients anyway." Chase broke in with a tentative voice, attempting to dispel the somber mood. Poor attempt, but it did the job.

It marked the end of the serious conversation, and Wilson nodded at them and flashed them a look of appreciation before heading back into House's office.

It was thus agreed upon, the roles reversed now – the ducklings would watch over House.


	6. Chapter 6

**The moment finally has arrived. This is a House/Cuddy fic after all :) **

* * *

><p>Wilson entered the loft to the sound of House retching in the toilet. He surveyed the loft. The state of it would shed light on how House's day went. He had adamantly insisted House stay home today after solving his most recent case. House had refused, but only half-heartedly. He didn't feel that great either.<p>

The TV was off, the couch and coffee table in the same state Wilson had left it in the morning before going to work. He walked over to the refrigerator, and saw the small lunch and snacks that he had left for House untouched.

It had been a bad day then.

Wilson heard the toilet flush, and heard the telltale thump of the cane as House left the toilet and went back into his room. The gait was slow and unsteady, peppered with occasional pauses. He grabbed a bottle of isotonic water and some crackers.

"House? You okay?"

House lay buried under two blankets. He shifted to look at Wilson, blearily opening his eyes. "I feel like shit." His voice was rough and heavy with fatigue. His eyes fell close again.

"Here, drink this. You need to replenish your fluids." Wilson sat down on the edge of House's bed. "And the team accepted a new case this afternoon. Here are the files."

"You should have told them to call me." House grumbled. He seemed to summon energy out of nowhere as he struggled into a sitting position and reached for his glasses.

"Really? I don't think you would have heard the phone anyway."

House ignored Wilson as he began poring over the file. It was true. He had slept most of the day away, leaving the bed occasionally only when the nausea had gotten too bad to bear. And he still felt exhausted.

Wilson shoved the plate of crackers under House's nose. "Eat some of this."

House shook his head and pushed it away.

"Or I'm taking the files back."

House pursed his lips and shot an irritated glare at Wilson as he grudgingly picked up a cracker and nibbled on it. Wilson simply shrugged his shoulders as he left the room.

As Wilson waited for his soup to heat up, he popped back into House's room. It was no surprise to see that House had dozed off, glasses askew on his face. The papers were scattered all over the bed, some still clutched in House's hands. Wilson shook his head. He checked the bowl of crackers – quarter of it gone – and shuffled all the papers together, placing them on the bedside table. He took House's glasses off, and pulled the blankets up to his chin. He switched off the table lamp, and left the room.

* * *

><p>The door to the conference room swung open and House limped in. Behind him, Wilson popped his head into the room and shot a meaningful glance at the team.<p>

House winced at the aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingering in the room, his stomach rolling slightly. He tried to hide from the team how much it had actually taken out of him to travel from the elevators to the diagnostics conference room by drawing up the usual impassive mask he put on. But they were part of his team for a reason.

"You okay?" Surprisingly, it was Foreman who asked. "You don't look so good."

_Understatement of the decade. _

"You really shouldn't come to work if you aren't feeling well, House." Taub chimed in. "You can come in another day. We can call you."

House ignored them pointedly, and gestured irritably. "Differential diagnosis. She's going to end up in the morgue soon."

"House, you just – "

"I had to come to inject into my bloodstream some poison anyway. _Updates_." House snapped.

Masters filled House's red mug with coffee and brought it to him. With the coffee right in front of him, the smell – _it used to be an aroma _- was overwhelming, and he lurched to his feet unsteadily. He dragged himself over to the bin, and started dry heaving, only bringing up some bile.

The team glanced at one another anxiously, not really knowing what to do. House was not one who appreciated gestures of care and concern. It was Chase who stepped up to make a move. He approached House with a cup of water and some tissues, but didn't initiate any body contact or conversation. He merely waited for House to compose himself and shakily accept the water and tissues, before turning back to the team and starting the discussion as though nothing had happened.

"Biopsies were clean, though she's still headed towards multi-organ failure. Respiratory arrest last night – "

Taking the cue from Chase, the team hunkered down to work.

"Foreman." House interrupted, slightly breathless. "Whiteboard. Go." He didn't think he could summon the energy to stand in front of the board, not when the room seemed to be tilting and spinning slightly around him.

House _never_ let anyone else write on the board. Foreman hesitated. He had done it for the past few years while House had been away, but to do it while House was here seemed _wrong_.

He took the marker.

At the end of the differential, House waited for the team to walk out of the room before he slumped over the table and buried his head in his arms. He rested there for a while, head pounding from the intense differential and the raised voices that it had inevitably resulted in. Conscious of the glass walls of the room and how much could be seen through them, he stood up and unsteadily headed back into his office. The few feet to the ottoman seemed like a mile, and he had to stop at the doorway and lean on it to prevent himself from losing the battle with the floor. He sank down into the ottoman, a groan escaping from him.

He woke momentarily to find a blanket tucked around him. He checked his watch. 1pm. His arm felt like a sack of bricks. He had been asleep for three hours. He caught sight of a note and a bottle of water next to him.

_LP negative. Negative for toxins. Running MRI. Drink up. _

It wasn't Wilson's handwriting. But he was too tired to try figure out whose it was. His eyes closed again.

* * *

><p>"House?"<p>

Taub stood in front of a dozing House. He hovered a bit, unwilling to shake House awake.

"House. Wake up, House."

House forced his eyes open. Taub hesitated, before grabbing the bottle of water and passing it to House, whom he thought still looked like shit.

"What." House checked his watch. 4pm. It felt like he had been asleep for the whole day, but he was still tired. He closed his eyes again.

"She developed a rash, and is running a temp…"

House nodded. As he sat there with his eyes closed listening to Taub give a rundown of all the results of the most recent tests, it suddenly came to him. He knew what she had. His eyes snapped open, and he dragged himself to his feet. The rash would confirm it. He just needed to see it. Placing most of his weight on the cane, he swayed unsteadily on his feet and his right hand shot out to grab the backrest of the ottoman. Taub immediately reached out towards him to support him, only to have his hands swatted away.

"_I'm fine.__" _

Taub looked at him skeptically before taking something out from his pocket. A mask. House stared disdainfully at it.

"Wear it if you want to see the patient."

House snatched it from him. They set off towards the patient's room, Taub watching House as surreptitiously as he could. House walked surprisingly fast, adrenaline providing the extra burst of energy he sorely needed.

House barged into the patient's room.

"This is Dr House, your attending..." Leave it to Masters to do the introductions and to ensure that the patient was well-updated and informed.

He ignored the dizziness and nausea that started to surge in him again, starting to protest against his little jaunt. He needed to solve the case. Grabbing the arms and legs of the patient, he forced himself to slowly examine the rash that had appeared. The tiniest of smirks appeared on his lips as he confirmed his diagnosis.

He turned to his team and proclaimed, "Adult-onset Still's Disease."

Masters balked. "In a 35 year old woman? That's not likely! It's more likely to be - "

"Does she look like a child? Hence the term _adult-onset_." House interrupted. He really needed to get out of there. He probably should have listened to Wilson, and stayed in his office to rest. "Confirm, then treat."

The room was spinning dangerously around him now as the adrenaline of solving the case started to wear off. His body was most definitely punishing him for his traipse to see the patient.

He lurched out of the room abruptly, face pale, ignoring Chase's concerned "House?"

He did not need to pass out. Not in front of his patient. Not in front of his patient. Not in front of everyone in the hospital. _He was fine._ It would pass.

As he stumbled towards the elevator, hoping desperately that he could get back to his office as soon as possible, he found himself losing the battle against his weary body. He leaned against the glass walls, and slowly sank to the floor as his legs gave out. He could hear his own harsh breaths as the world spun around him. He felt a hand slapping gently at his cheek, and then going to feel for his pulse.

"House? Can you hear me?" The words were slurred. Or maybe they just sounded slurred. More voices, then more faces appeared. They all blurred into a buzz, the colours and faces melting together. His eyelids felt so heavy.

But he couldn't answer, couldn't move. His body was a deadweight. _So tired._ He gave in to the darkness.

* * *

><p>He gradually became aware of a faint beeping, and the stiff sheets that scratched at his skin. Then came the slight throbbing in his abdomen, and the ever-present pain in his thigh. He dragged his eyes open. Wilson was in the chair, scrutinizing some document, too preoccupied to notice that House had awoken.<p>

"How long…" House croaked. He cleared his throat. "How long was I out?" It was bright outdoors, which means it was still _today_. Or it was _tomorrow_.

Wilson's head snapped up. A look of relief appeared across his face at seeing House awake, and he literally felt the tension that had wound his body taut seep out of his pores as he sighed in relief.

"You're awake."

"Well that's obvious. No, I'm talking in my sleep."

"You were out for 36 hours. Your blood cell counts plummeted, hence the fatigue and exhaustion. We'll stop chemo for a while to get them back up." Wilson stood up and his hands went to his hips. His tone turned slightly accusing as he recalled the terrifying moments he had endured when he had been paged. It was part and parcel of his job, but it was different when it was his best friend he was treating.

"And you were _dehydrated_, House. I _told_ you to drink more water to replenish the fluids, the team told me they had been passing you bottles of water." Wilson flung his hands in the air in exasperation. "You need to _take care of yourself." _

House remained silent. Wilson needed to vent. Contrary to the popular belief in the hospital, He knew it wasn't easy for Wilson to have to deal with him, much less as a friend and a doctor. It was the way they worked. House might annoy or frustrate Wilson to no end, but when he knew Wilson needed to vent or rant or simply ramble, he would let Wilson do it, even when it was against him. He always listened to Wilson.

He watched and listened as Wilson paced around the room, spilling out rationalizations and stressing on the importance of taking care of himself while battling cancer and though plummeting blood cell counts were inevitable with chemo, he could not allow himself to get dehydrated again and if it happened again Wilson would make him stay home and forcibly apply for sick leave for him so that he could stay home to rest like other normal people would in this situation instead of stupidly insisting on going to work in a germ-filled environment like the hospital where he could be exposed to infections because he was immuno-compromised –

Finally Wilson plopped back into the chair, slightly breathless at his outburst. House looked at him quietly for a moment.

He had never wanted Wilson to worry or to have to care for him, not now, not ever. So many incidents over the years – the infarction, his numerous exploits that had landed him in hospital beds – and Wilson had been there all the way. House had never meant for Wilson to be embroiled in his dangerous acts or involved in his recoveries. It was Wilson who had reached out to House, steadfastly standing by him despite the anger, the lashing outs and the acts of self-destruction. The only time Wilson had ever left was after Amber's death, but House knew that was insignificant in the larger picture of things. House knew he had been at fault. And Wilson had eventually come back.

House had never thanked him properly for everything; he had only allowed himself to show the slightest gratitude with the smallest of gestures. A squeeze of the hand. A meaningful glance. A slight curling of the lips.

He never wanted Wilson to be dragged down with him in the slow march he was now trudging in towards death; much less have to worry day and night over him. That's why he had chosen to keep his knowledge about his ailing body to himself until Wilson had inevitably found out.

It had been his way of finally, setting Wilson free. At least, it had been an attempt to. A failed attempt. Look where they were now.

It was barely a whisper.

"_Sorry_."

Wilson saw an expression on House's face he had almost never seen before. Was it gratitude? But there was also a tinge of resignation, apology, weariness, or even a slight hint of unworthiness.

He bit his lip. He hated seeing House like that. Vulnerable, ill.

"Just… Just take care of yourself, okay?"

* * *

><p>"Please tell me you're busting me out of this hellhole today." House sat up in the bed, peering over his medical journal.<p>

"Well since you actually said _please_, I think that's possible." Wilson smirked as he walked in the door. "And it's only been two days, House."

"Two days too long." House grumbled.

"Well this wouldn't have happened if – "

"I get it. No need for you to start all over again. Let's go." House caught sight of the wheelchair that Wilson had pushed in. "No. I'm not getting in that."

"Standard procedure. Or would you rather stay here…?"

House scowled his most spectacular scowl at Wilson, who remained indifferent. He maneuvered himself into the wheelchair, placed his cane in his lap, and wheeled out of the room. Wilson rolled his eyes. House had left behind his backpack and books, of course expecting Wilson to grab them.

For once, Wilson didn't really give a damn about having to do so. He was just glad to see House discharged and able to snark at him. But he knew this would, realistically, be the first of several, hopefully not many, hospitalizations. It came with the cancer and the chemotherapy.

"What took you so long? Dying person here." House jabbed the lift button.

"Don't say that." Wilson frowned. House had developed a habit of calling himself that. Sure, it was his sarcasm, but it was still unsettling. "I said thank you to the nurses who put up with your antics. It was the least I could do."

"It was their job. They had to. More likely you were trying to find a Mrs Wilson number... wait, what's the number again? 31?"

"You tested every single nurse's limits. Did you know they had to draw straws to decide who would change your IV?"

House had annoyed the nurses during his brief stay, but truth be told, to a much lesser extent than he used to do so. He simply didn't have the energy to rebel against them much, instead spending much of his time resting. All the nurses, upon seeing how sick the diagnostician was to actually not be able to drive them up the wall as he usually did, had softened slightly towards him, all animosity towards the intimidating jerk they knew, forgotten. They had even confided in Wilson how they hoped House would get well soon.

Not that Wilson would ever tell House that.

"And you left your iPod behind in the room." Wilson dangled it in front of House's face. "What would you do without me?" he asked mockingly.

House grabbed it and shoved it into his shirt pocket. "Thanks," he grumbled. It had been his second best friend for the past few weeks, getting him tide through the absolutely shitty moments.

They bantered for a while more, before the lift finally arrived. Wilson could tell House was tiring, his replies getting shorter, his body starting to slouch over. He had been placed in the room furthest from the lifts to ensure as much privacy as possible, and the simple act of wheeling himself to the elevator had tired him. House was getting older, the cancer had taken a lot out of him, and his body no longer had the reserves to bounce back up as easily.

Wilson started telling a story about an idiotic clinic patient, making House chuckle appreciatively. Seeing House momentarily distracted, Wilson took his chance and seized the handles of the wheelchair and began pushing House out of the lift as soon as the doors opened.

A small gaggle of nurses surrounded someone right in front of the clinic doors, chatting excitedly. House didn't take notice of them. His head was starting to throb slightly with the noise and bustle of the lobby. Wilson pushed the wheelchair towards the main entrance of the hospital, and they inevitably drew nearer to the small crowd.

"I'm not an invalid, Wilson. I can - "

The words died on House's lips as he caught sight of the person standing in front of the clinic. She embraced a former co-worker. Her throaty voice stood out from the chatter and giggles. The melody of her laughter floated through the air.

The crowd parted slightly.

At that very moment, she turned her head, radiant smile still on her lips.

House couldn't tear his gaze away.

And his cerulean blue eyes met the blue-grey eyes of one particular Lisa Cuddy.

* * *

><p><strong>Finally, yeah? Do leave a review! <strong>


	7. Chapter 7

Lisa Cuddy stepped into the lobby of PPTH for the first time in four years.

She had _tried_ to stay, after House had decimated her home, but the memories wouldn't leave her alone. Every corner of the hospital reminded her of House. Her very own home reminded her of him. She didn't want to be reminded of him anymore.

But that was not what drove her away. She could handle that. It was actually the _good_ memories that kept coming back to haunt her, and that eventually led her to leave. She didn't want to recall the good memories that they shared, because they made her want him back. They made her want to forgive him like she always did eventually.

That was what she couldn't handle. Not after he wrecked her house, and could have killed Rachel, or even her.

So she packed her bags, and left the place she had worked and lived in for nearly half her life. She kept in touch with a few doctors here and there, and regularly communicated with Wilson. But they never, ever, discussed House. And she never reconciled with House. Not even when she had seen him from a distance at his mother's funeral.

She had been angry and resentful at what House had done. He wrecked her home, endangered her daughter's life, and had forced her to leave Princeton, and _her_ hospital behind. He had thrust her entire life into turmoil with his single moment of recklessness.

That was why things never would have worked out between them. Because she could never feel safe with him, and they could never be a functional, stable family together.

But in the end, watching House get hauled off to jail didn't give her any satisfaction. All she felt was disappointment and bitterness that things had turned out this way.

Things at New York Mercy were good. She wasn't holding a position of high authority, but instead was Assistant Head of the Endocrinology Department. It had been good to get back to basics – to _really_ practice medicine instead of dealing with donors and paperwork all the time. Her new position also allowed her to spend more time with Rachel, who was now ten and growing up way too fast for her to handle. So it seemed like she had everything going for her – she was a real doctor again, and family life with Rachel was good. But sometimes, he would still haunt her thoughts. Their good times together would appear in her dreams. And she hated the fact that she actually missed those times.

"Dr Cuddy!"

A few nurses spotted her, and they immediately swarmed over and surrounded her. Cuddy relaxed and smiled – these were her old friends.

She laughed and chatted with the nurses, and a few doctors came over to say their hellos. She showed them all pictures of Rachel in her phone. She enquired about the hospital and how everything was going. She felt free of the burdens that had weighed her down for the past few years. It was different to talk about PPTH not as its dean of medicine, but it felt just like home.

She stood there for a good fifteen minutes, just chatting and enjoying herself. As Nurse Jeffrey complained to her about something absolutely inane and hilarious, she laughed carefreely – it wasn't her problem to fix anymore. Different, but somehow liberating.

Cuddy checked her watch – she had to leave pretty soon if she wanted to make it back to New York the time she had originally planned for. Apologetically, she halted the conversation. "I'm sorry guys, but I really have to go – I'm headed back to New York in a few hours to catch Rachel's play, and I would really like to go say hi to Dr Jones."

There were a few murmurs of disappointment, and a few jokes about holding her hostage, but the crowd parted obligingly for her to head to her old office.

She turned her head out of habit to peer at the rest of the lobby, and she caught sight of a familiar figure. James Wilson. Cuddy was about to break into a smile when her eyes travelled downwards to see whom he was wheeling across the lobby.

She froze, as her eyes met _his_.

Her smile faded, and her breath caught as she saw him again for the first time in nearly six years.

Time had not been kind to him, not like it had been to her. He had always been on the lean side, but he had lost a significant amount of weight. He was in a wheelchair.

They continued to stare at each other for what seemed like an eternity. The gamut of emotions that ran through his eyes was hard to interpret.

It was House who tore his gaze away. He looked down at his lap; fidgeting uncomfortably at the extremely awkward situation they now found themselves in.

Wilson gawped; jaw dropping for a second before he gathered himself together. He gripped the wheelchair handles hard. Now what? Was Cuddy going to find out about everything? Or should he try whisking House away?

It was Cuddy who made the first move in a split second decision.

Time had dulled and eroded those bitter feelings of anger and resentment, and the pain had faded. There was only a lingering disappointment and sadness at what had transpired between them. At how good it had been, and at how horribly twisted it had all turned out in the end.

But he had served his time. He had been punished. He had ruined her life, but she had started over in a new environment, rebuilt it, and she was _happy_ now. There was no way she was going to let this affect her, or ruin her happiness. She was happy in New York, happy to be back visiting PPTH. And she would be even happier if she could leave with some sort of proper conclusion with all that had happened between them. To finally, really, end things between them. Maybe on a good note. Or bad. She was just seeking some closure. Then she could head back out to New York and continue living her new, better life.

So Lisa Cuddy found herself walking towards the man she had loved for the past twenty years but avoided for the past six. She noted wryly how dumbstruck Wilson looked, heading to him first to give him a hug and peck on the cheek.

"Cuddy! I didn't expect to… it's been… how are you?" Wilson was all flustered. Sure, he had communicated with Cuddy regularly via email, and met up with her once or twice over in New York. But she was back _here_, in the flesh.

Cuddy stepped in front of House, who still looked pointedly at his lap.

"House."

He raised his head to look at her. In such close proximity, she could see the deep lines etched in his face, and how gaunt he was.

He nodded a greeting. "Cuddy."

An awkward silence fell upon the three of them. Wilson swallowed hard, and broke the silence, fumbling slightly over his words. "What brings you back here, Cuddy? It's been such a long time…"

"Came back to visit an old friend, and my mother. I'm leaving in a few hours." Cuddy paused, and then asked, "Shall we grab a quick meal together? I think we need to talk."

Wilson glanced down towards House, who was valiantly trying to look as healthy and un-sick as possible. "Uh I'm not - "

"You're right. We do have to talk. Cafeteria?" House cut him off before he could say another word.

Cuddy nodded, and started heading towards the cafeteria. Wilson lingered behind and bent over to whisper to House, "You're sure you're feeling up to this?"

House gazed at her retreating figure. He needed closure too. He needed to come to terms with the fact that Cuddy was better off without him in her life, and that she would never come back into his life again.

"I'm fine. Don't you dare mention anything to her, Wilson."

* * *

><p>They sat across one another in a secluded corner of the cafeteria. Numerous glances and whispers were directed at them, but they pointedly tried not to take notice.<p>

Wilson came back with a Reuben, salad, pasta, two cups of coffee and a ginger ale. Passing the Reuben and ginger ale to House, he offered the salad and coffee to Cuddy, who accepted it with a smile. Wilson was still the same after all these years.

She nodded pointedly at House's ginger ale, "Not taking coffee?"

House grimaced at the thought of the nausea it now induced in him. He lied, "Too much today already." He unwrapped the Reuben, and forced himself to take a bite despite the fact that he wasn't hungry at all.

"Never knew there was such a thing as too much coffee," Cuddy commented as she picked at her salad. House, like all other doctors, usually drank coffee like others drank water.

"Yeah."

No wit or snark from House. Cuddy couldn't decipher whether it was because this was a totally awkward situation or for some other unknown reason. Usually, he was barging all about the place, not caring for awkward or unpleasant situations. Usually, he found pleasure in adding fuel to fire. This was definitely weird. Something was wrong, but Cuddy couldn't place her fingers on it.

Wilson broke the silence. "How's things in New York?"

"It's great. I'm practicing again, Rachel's enjoying herself. We're happy."

"That's good."

An awkward silence fell over the table as the three doctors picked away at their own food and drink.

"Cuddy, I – "

"House, I – "

House gestured at her for her to continue, muttering as he looked away, "Ladies first."

At the interruption, Cuddy lost her train of thought, and her bravery to say whatever she had meant to say. She settled on asking an obvious question. "Why are you in a wheelchair?"

_Shit_, thought Wilson.

House looked down at the body that was slowly giving up on him after so many years of abuse; his mind whirring to find an acceptable explanation. This was Cuddy, who had dealt with him for the past decade. She was the only person other than Wilson who could read him, deal with him, and stand up to him. She was his equal, though he never admitted it. She would be able to spot anything wrong instantly.

He forced himself to give a scoff, and scowled as convincingly as he could.

"Lost a bet with Wilson. He took my cane away."

Wilson jumped in, "Well that's because he would have fallen over – " His voice trailed off as House shot him a potent glare of warning, " - since he's been on this case for three days and hasn't gone home since the patient was admitted. And his leg's been giving him trouble," he added lamely as an afterthought.

Cuddy smiled wanly at the two men before her. They had done this before. Wilson caring for House; and House rejecting it as usual, resulting in Wilson having to result to trickery to get House to somewhat take care of himself.

"Tough case?"

"Yeah."

Small talk was not working out. It never did for the three of them anyway.

House put his sandwich down, unable to eat anymore. The throbbing in his leg and abdomen were intensifying by the minute, and he pressed his right hand to his thigh while his left hand reached into his pocket for the painkillers Wilson had prescribed for him. Popping the lid open, he swallowed two pills and washed them down with the ginger ale.

Cuddy witnessed this and a twinge shot through her heart. It was an unpleasant reminder of what had transpired between them. The Vicodin was the root of all their problems.

"You're still on the Vicodin." It wasn't a question, but a statement.

House stared at the pill bottle in his hands. It wasn't the amber vial anymore. He had originally refused to go on painkillers, but the pain from the tumor and in his leg had intensified over time, and he couldn't fight it like he used to. Wilson had finally managed to get him to agree to a weak opiate.

He closed his hand over the pill bottle, gripping it tight, and found himself agreeing with her without looking at her in the eye. "I need it for my pain."

Not entirely the truth, but not a lie either.

Wilson frowned at the half-truth. He was about to interject, but Cuddy beat him to it.

Cuddy's voice was cold and quiet. "It's the root of all your problems, House. - "

Her voice rose slightly in volume as she grew more agitated. She couldn't believe he was still on the Vicodin. Part of it was concern for him, but mostly, it was incredulity and anger that he was still on his old path of self-destruction. Leopards really do never change their spots.

" - So much has happened over all the years because of the goddamn Vicodin, and you're _still_ on it."

House repeated, "I need it for my pain." He slipped the vial of pills back into his pocket, still avoiding eye contact with her.

Wilson sensed that this was not going to be pleasant. He jumped in, "He's experiencing more pain lately – "

"Stay out of this, Wilson." House glared fiercely at Wilson.

Cuddy continued on, her frustration evident. "You managed after Mayfield perfectly well – you don't need Vicodin - "

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do! For nearly two years you stayed clean! And then you relapsed – "

"It wasn't – "

She ignored him. " – And everything went downhill from there. You took drugs that had only been tested on rats. You operated on your own leg." Her voice was raised now. "You just want it so you won't feel pain, House. You can choose to deal with it but you choose not to at all."

"You don't know the pain I endure. You don't know what it was like. You can't speak for me like that." House said quietly. She didn't know how difficult it is to deal with the pain when he was off the Vicodin. Sometimes, even Wilson was oblivious to it. He was just that good at hiding it.

"But I do know that you use Vicodin to escape emotions and pain," she argued, "It's the easy way out. You've _always_ taken the easy way out."

At this, House looked up at her defiantly, "Is it wrong to not want to be in pain? To want to take the easy way out?"

"It's wrong if it ultimately ends up with you _driving your car into my house._"

A hush fell over the tables surrounding theirs.

Cuddy took a deep breath. This was the conversation they should have had years ago. This was the painful closure that they needed – to confront the unresolved issues and feelings that had lingered through all these years.

"You could have killed someone, House. What if Rachel was there? What if I was still there?" Her voice wavered as she recalled how terrifying the it had been to hear the crash and see his car _in_ her house. And the cold look in his eyes as he got out of the car. She couldn't imagine what would have happened if Rachel was in the room.

House deflated like a balloon with no air, and he slumped in his wheelchair, partly from exhaustion and partly from defeat.

"She wasn't there…" He mumbled.

"You couldn't be sure, House. _You couldn't be sure_."

He had spent many nights pondering over his actions, and knew that ultimately, he was in the wrong. There was nothing he could argue against it. It happened. It was a fact, and nothing could change it.

"I know."

Another silence fell over the table. Wilson fidgeted anxiously in his seat.

"I'm sorry," House whispered.

Cuddy gazed at him, and saw his eyes shining with what looked like unshed tears, sincerity and desperation. But she just couldn't forgive and forget. Her own lips trembled. She closed her eyes and bit her lips. She couldn't stop the tears that escaped from the corner of her eyes.

"Sorry doesn't change anything. It doesn't make anything better."

"I know." His voice was no more than a breathy whisper. He hated making her cry.

She wiped away the tears from her face, and stood up, straightening her clothes. It was time to bring an end to this conversation, to walk away from him again and back to her new life in New York, where she was happy. This was the best conclusion they could ever get together.

"I've got to go."

Wilson sprang up from his seat, alarmed at the idea of her leaving without knowing the truth. "Cuddy, wait! Don't go yet, please, just – "

House cut him off, yanking him back down onto his seat. He was going to let her go. He wanted her back, probably _needed_ her now. But she didn't. He didn't want her to come back just because he's _dying_. And she would do that, because her guilt complex was phenomenal. She was happier without him. She was better off without him. He wasn't going to inflict more pain on her anymore.

House swallowed the emotions that threatened to betray him, and forced himself to look at her. "Be happy, Cuddy."

"I am happy."

She slid out of her seat, and gathered her things. She looked at Wilson, who seemed extremely troubled and agitated. Something was amiss, but she just couldn't place her finger on it. Wilson was oddly defensive of House, and seemed to be withholding something from her. House had been subdued. Maybe prison really had changed him. Maybe he really was trying to change.

But this wasn't her life anymore. There was no more need for her to fuss over House, or to deal with him anymore. There was no need to try and figure out what was wrong. She was leaving her ghosts behind in Princeton once and for all. Her heart was now in New York, where her life was uncomplicated and held no painful memories.

She still loved him, she was sure of that. Twenty years of feelings weren't easily forgotten. But she couldn't come back to him, and they couldn't be together. The weight of all their past hurt and mistakes was just far too suffocating. It was far easier to take the easy way out, and to leave him, and all the hurt behind.

She looked into House's mesmerizing blue eyes, committing them to memory, for she was certain she would never see them again. Now that they had some sort of closure, she had to make it a clean break.

"Be well, House," she murmured, "Goodbye."

With that, she turned away from him, and walked away from him for the final time in her life.

* * *

><p>Wilson sat stunned in his seat at what had just transpired. She had left, again. House had kept from her his ailing health, and had chosen to let her leave.<p>

"Oh for God's sake House! You should have…" His voice trailed off as he noticed the expression on House's face as he watched Cuddy through the cafeteria. "Oh, House."

"I have a headache, Wilson." His voice was rough as he started turning the wheelchair away from the table. "I want to go home."

Wilson didn't miss the slight tremble in House's voice, or how pointedly House hid his face from him.

He closed his eyes and sighed. He wondered just how everything had become so screwed up amongst the three of them over the past decade. And he, as a friend of both of them, was caught between a rock and a hard place. Nothing was easy when it came to the two of them.

Judging from the palpable hurt radiating off Cuddy, and the insistence of House that she not be informed about his condition, he didn't even dare to hope that one day, there would be a reconciliation and that everything would turn out fine with a happy ending. The only thing he could do was to be there for his best friend.

"Okay," he agreed, "Let's go home."

He squeezed House's shoulder with his hand, hoping to provide some comfort. House didn't rebuff the physical contact.


	8. Chapter 8

The team sat around the table in the DDX room, silent. They were out of ideas. Their latest patient was deteriorating rapidly, and they actually had no more ideas. And House was conspicuously missing.

They finally gave in and reached for the phone. Wilson picked up.

"Wilson? Can we speak to House? We need a consult. Patient's deteriorating rapidly."

Wilson glanced towards House's room, and hesitated. "Um… Today's not really a good day."

The team could well decipher the underlying meaning in Wilson's vague statement. It practically screamed at them _No way I'm giving him the phone. _

"Just a quick consult. Our patient's_ dying_." Foreman insisted. Perhaps Wilson would give in.

"Look, you guys coped without him for four years." Wilson countered _too_ patiently, "And you can cope without him now. It was a tough morning and he's out for the count so there really is no way he can give a consult now."

The team stared glumly at the phone as Wilson mercilessly hung up on them.

* * *

><p>Wilson ended the call with a twinge of guilt. He probably shouldn't have hung up on them.<p>

The New Jersey winter had never been kind to House. The bitter cold brought about more pain in his damaged thigh and overworked joints and muscles. It also brought ice, which was never cripple-friendly.

_Wilson walked into House's room to wake him for work, expecting House to still be buried under the blankets, fast asleep. Instead, he found the blankets thrown aside, and House clutching at his damaged thigh, his entire body tense and trembling. He had been so good at suppressing his moans of agony that Wilson hadn't heard anything at all. _

"_God, House… You should have said something." _

"_I'm… okay. S'okay," House ground out with gritted teeth. _

"_You're tachycardic!" _

"_Mm'fine." _

_But the harsh gasps for air and white knuckles wrapped around the right thigh told a different story. _

"_I'm gonna give you some morphine." _

"_No! No… no morphine." _

"_House, you need it. Just let me give it to you." _

"_Don't need… it," House insisted, "It will… pass… No morphine… Used to it…"_

_Wilson had a gut feeling about House's reluctance to accept the morphine. He moved to make eye contact with House._

"_Don't use the pain to punish yourself, House. Don't."_

_The flash of guilt in House's eyes confirmed Wilson's suspicions. Years of fighting pain and functioning with it had given House the ability to hide emotions and pain behind his steely exterior. But this time, Wilson could still see it in those expressive eyes. _

"_Not punishing… myself. No." _

_It was half an hour before House finally relented. He drifted off into a painless sleep, exhausted from fighting the pain. Wilson wiped away the sweat and the tears. He found his eyes burning as he covered House with the two layers of blankets he now required to keep warm._

Maybe a year or two ago, House would have been able to overcome and fight on through the pain. But now, it was virtually impossible. Years of abuse on his body, coupled with disease and the process of ageing had rendered him weaker than he should be.

Two months since diagnosis, one month since Cuddy left Princeton. The chemo and radiation seemed to be working – there was no sign of the cancer spreading. But the tumor had only shrunk minimally. There was no progress, but no deterioration either.

Wilson hated how House had clamped down and raised those walls of his after the encounter with Cuddy. He was more withdrawn and subdued, with markedly less grumbling and complaints about Wilson's fussing. Even the team had asked Wilson whether everything was okay, because House didn't seem to have his heart in the differentials anymore. Each day, Wilson would battle with himself to not call Cuddy to tell her the truth, and to get her to come back. Each email to Cuddy, Wilson would find himself restraining from spilling everything out. He actually typed everything out, and hovered over the send button, before deleting everything and hitting the send button on the heavily edited and falsely cheerful email that was the exact opposite of how he felt.

God, he hated it.

There were no more late nights nursing bottles of beers and watching TiVo. Nor take-out, which was too greasy and made House nauseous. Now, it was rare that House stayed up past ten.

Wilson hated how the disease was taking the House he knew away. He hated how Cuddy had taken House's heart away with her. He knew that House was just humoring him now, accepting treatment because it was what Wilson wanted.

Wilson was an oncologist, and dealt with cancer every single day. He had witnessed so many patients pass away, dealt with the deaths of patients he had come to grow attached to, dealt with the countless deaths of young children and good people. But it never got any easier.

And it was just so hard when it happened to be his best friend.

Wilson stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He had aged, his chocolate brown hair now bearing streaks of grey. His youthful face now had more lines. He sighed, running his hand down his face before splashing ice-cold water onto it.

Twenty, nearly thirty years of friendship with House now. It had been an insane few decades. Their chance meeting at a bar, House bailing Wilson out from jail, the infarction, arguments, the numerous divorces and subsequent stayovers at 221B, manipulations, Tritter, more arguments, Amber, the deep brain stimulation, Mayfield, Sam, Cuddy, the whole car fiasco…

Their friendship was unconventional, and it ran deep. It had endured so much through the years.

For House wasn't simply Wilson's best friend. No, he was more like Wilson's brother, a surrogate for the one Wilson had lost all those years back. They understood each other, and accepted one another for who they were.

Wilson tolerated misanthropic House's drug and alcohol abuse, and insults and self-destructive ways. House tolerated Wilson's serial infidelity, manipulations, emotional blackmail and irrational guilt and need to care.

All through the years, he had tried to change House, to try make him a better person. House mocked his specialty, insulted him and bugged him to no end, but had _never_ tried to change Wilson for who he was. Instead, Wilson had walked away from him, betrayed him several times.

Wilson's friendship was conditional – that's why he was always trying to change House for the better, and to get him off the pain meds that he needed. On the contrary, House's friendship was _unconditional_. He risked his career at the conference to read out Wilson's controversial paper on euthanasia. He risked his brain to undergo deep brain stimulation for Amber, whom Wilson had only known for four months.

People always thought that Wilson was the good guy who was crazy to be that bastard House's best friend. But they didn't know that he too was a deeply flawed character, and he needed House too. House was the only person who truly saw Wilson for who he was, and so it was with House that Wilson felt he could truly be his own self.

A quiet noise interrupted Wilson's thoughts. Putting the laptop aside hurriedly, Wilson went to check on House.

House was shifting restlessly on the bed. Even in sleep, his right hand was wrapped protectively around his thigh. He was muttering; vivid dreams induced from the morphine.

_He's on the beach, facing the sea. What he's done finally hits him, and he crashes back down from his high. _

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. She could have been there."

_He's in the bus, hands trembling as he reaches for the red scarf wrapped around Amber's neck. _

"I have to tie this around you… Just stay with me."

_He's six and in the toilet, staring at the bathtub of ice his dad has prepared. He shivers. _

"Mm sorry, dad. Please don't. Not the ice."

_He's watching her leave. He shouldn't have taken the pill. _

"Don't. Don't, please don't."

_He's watching Wilson walk out and away from him. _

"I'm sorry, Wilson. I tried my best. I'm sorry I killed her. Don't go."

Once Wilson realized what House was mumbling in his drug-induced dreams, he escaped swiftly from the room, far away out of earshot as he always did. It wasn't the first time House was having those dreams. Or were they nightmares?

And House, so intensely private, would never have wanted him to hear all that.

Those were the deepest emotions of House, usually hidden far beneath his stony and strong exterior. Because House carried with him the weight of all his mistakes and the hurt he had endured; he felt every bit of regret that haunted him. It was only recently that Wilson found out.

* * *

><p>"How are our three patients?"<p>

House entered the conference room and sat down heavily in the chair. He took off his winter coat and hung it up, but didn't remove the scarf and the second jacket that was on top of his usual t-shirt and blue dress shirt. He got cold easily now.

"Deteriorating rapidly. Alex is in a coma now…" House listened intently as he sipped the ginger tea that Wilson had made, cringing. Wilson had been forcing it on him, extoling its benefits - how it eased nausea and warmed the insides and had antioxidants.

The team now took their coffee in covered tumblers so as to spare House the aroma of coffee. At Master's urging, they had made many small changes to the conference room. No one sat at the chair closest to the door and House's office anymore so that he could take it and be spared the extra distance to walk. There was now always a small pillow in House's chair and recliner so he could use it to ease the backache that had developed. Coffee was now made way in advance before House arrived so to let the smell clear the room. A shorter whiteboard had been purchased so House could write while sitting down.

They were sure House had noticed, but there was no comment from him. No anger nor insistence that he didn't need it. That unnerved them a little.

No one complained about all the small accommodations that they made for House. They all respected House – he was their mentor, their teacher, and he had undoubtedly made them all better doctors. And with that respect came a grudging gratitude and concern for him. After all, they had worked together for years now.

"You guys should have called me yesterday," House tapped his cane on the ground as he contemplated the new information. The team exchanged glances, all unwilling to tell him that they _did_ call. He didn't need to know that.

"So what do we…" His voice trailed off as he began coughing. It was a while before he cleared his throat and continued, "So what do we know now?"

Chase scrutinized House as he sipped at his coffee. House was breathing more shallowly than usual, and the cough didn't sound good. His voice was also softer than usual, as though he was unwilling to take deep breaths. His heart skipped a beat as he considered the possibilities. Metastasis? Or just a cold?

Right on cue, he received a text message from Wilson. _Keep an eye on him. Bad cold. _

Chase exhaled in relief, and texted back an _Ok_. It was obvious that House had probably practically browbeaten Wilson into agreeing to letting him come back in despite not feeling well, probably due to the fact that he had missed the whole of yesterday.

"Chase!"

Chase's head snapped back up. He had completely lost track of the discussion, and everyone was staring at him, House with a look of utmost annoyance.

"Are you with us or not?" House snapped and poked Chase with his cane in the chest mutiple times. "We're trying to ensure our patients will walk out of this hospital _alive_ here. The least you can do is try to exercise your brain cells instead of spacing out on us."

Chase sheepishly smiled and turned his attention back to the discussion.

It was so much like the old days that it almost hurt.

As the team stood up to go conduct further tests, House stopped Chase with his cane, and beckoned for him to sit back down.

"I want you to bring Wilson out for bowling and dinner tomorrow. If you want, get Foreman and Taub, and that other oncologist that Wilson knows pretty well… What's his name? Brown?"

"Um… why?"

"Or play squash. Wilson likes squash. And golf. Make it a regular thing."

"House…"

"Or introduce him to some girls. Hookers, nurses, whatever. Or just bring him out for some drinks."

"I'm only going to agree if you tell me why."

House pursed his lips and looked away from Chase. "Wilson needs a break."

Understanding dawned upon Chase. More than ten years working with House meant he knew him pretty well. House, sharp and observant, had noticed the toll his illness was taking on Wilson, who had no doubt been caring tirelessly for him. Wilson was looking rather haggard lately. He wanted to give Wilson a break from him. To have some sort of social life instead of tending to cancer patients at work _and_ at home after work.

And maybe… to even start to prepare Wilson for the time after House is gone.

The last thought was sobering, and Chase shook his head to clear that thought out of his mind. But he couldn't help but smile at the immense friendship and love the two department heads had for each other.

"What are you smiling at?" House irritably grumbled as he saw Chase's bemused expression Chase grinned – House really had no idea how obvious his concern for Wilson was, and how _human_ it made him.

"Nothing. But okay."

"Good. Now go do what you're paid to do."

House rose to his feet slowly, exhaustion evident in every inch of his body. He placed virtually no weight on his right leg at all. He swayed dangerously on the spot, gripping his cane and the back of the chair tight.

Chase noticed all this. Without thinking, he stood up and wordlessly moved to House's left side, pulling House's arm over his shoulders. He half-expected to be shoved away and to have his head bitten off, but instead, he felt House shift his weight slightly to lean on him.

"Thanks," muttered House.

Chase helped House over to the recliner, supporting most of his mentor's weight. It scared him how easy it was to support House's weight despite House being inches taller than him. And it definitely scared him that House was now actually accepting help from those around him.

It was like he was giving up, and unwilling to fight anymore.

Chase retrieved a bottle of water, and the blanket that was now permanently left in House's office. By the time he got back, House's eyes had fallen close.

Chase faltered. He felt like he was watching the only father figure he ever truly had and respected slowly slip away. And it terrified him.

Chase clenched his fists as he felt his hands tremble slightly. No, House wouldn't want him to be so affected, so afraid. If House could face this, so could he.

He left the bottle of water by the chair, and covered House with the blanket. He left the office, switching off the lights and drawing the blinds shut before going to join the rest of the team at the lab.

* * *

><p>"I'll be back by eleven. Don't forget to take the meds." Wilson griped as he prepared to leave the house. "Your cough is getting worse. Any worse and I'm admitting you."<p>

House coughed feebly on the couch, waving a hand to dismiss Wilson. "For someone who has _(cough) _been dry-swallowing pills that suppress the cough reflex for years _(cough)_ I do have a pretty strong cough huh."

"I'm serious, House. If your fever goes any higher, you know what I'm gonna do. And I'm really not afraid to piss you off so I will do it."

"It's winter, Wilson. It's okay to fall sick."

"Not when your immune system is so compromised!"

"Enough. Go, Wilson. They're waiting."

"Are you sure – "

"You'll only be gone for four hours. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not gonna die in the next four hours. Stop fussing and just go."

Wilson fiddled with his coat buttons. "Maybe I should tell Chase to come by another day when you're better and – "

"_Wilson_." A warning growl.

Wilson knew there was no way he could stay back, not when House was adamant on him going and was practically shoving him out the door with sheer will and insistence. But he really didn't like the sound of that cough. It had progressed to a deep, wet-sounding cough. And House was still running a fever.

Wilson knew why House was chasing him out, and he was grateful for it. But at the same time, he felt guilty for actually feeling grateful for the break.

He sighed, "I'm leaving now."

"Yes, I can see that. I'm not blind. _Finally_, may I add."

Barely fifteen minutes after Wilson had left, there was a knock on the door. House dragged himself to his feet to answer the door.

The door swung open to reveal Masters in a particularly blinding green coat. She held up a large flask and chirped way too cheerfully, "Special delivery of chicken soup!"

House groaned, raising his eyes to the heavens. "For God's sake, Wilson." He stomped back into the house, leaving a bemused Masters to trail after him.

* * *

><p>Five days later, Arlene Cuddy walked into PPTH to visit a friend who had been hospitalized. She glanced at the clinic and into her daughter's old office. Everything looked the same, other than the fact that her daughter no longer worked here.<p>

Because of Greg House.

Arlene sighed, as she always did when she thought of the two of them. Two of the most stubborn people she had ever met, other than herself. So perfect for each other, but so torn apart by their strong wills and characters.

Arlene Cuddy might have pushed Lisa a bit too hard and not had the best relationship with her, but she knew her daughter well. She had never seen Lisa so happy with anyone else other than House. That was why she had gone to the extent of suing them and practically emptying the entire hospital in order to get the two of them together in the same place. Too bad that hadn't worked.

And now, her older daughter moved away just to avoid him after he had done the most idiotic thing on earth. That act had shocked Arlene too, and that was when she had finally, finally given up all hope that they would ever be together again. And she too was angry at him for driving the nail into coffin, and irrevocably robbing her daughter of her chance at a relationship of true happiness with him.

So love really wasn't enough to sustain the two of them. Not with Lisa's high standards and perfectionist tendencies, and Greg's self-destructive habits and unpredictable personality.

Still, Arlene Cuddy rued the failure of their relationship, and this hospital was just a reminder of them both.

She entered the washroom, and while in the cubicle, heard two voices. She listened intently as she always did. Toilet conversations were always fascinating.

"… you heard? Dr House was admitted yesterday with pneumonia."

"Yeah, I was on the floor when he was admitted. He's is in pretty bad shape."

"House always seems so formidable. He's a bastard and has done some pretty crazy stuff, but no one should have to suffer like that."

"Yeah. Dr Wilson must be having such a hard time treating his best friend…" It's the conversation faded off as the two nurses exited the washroom.

Arlene couldn't suppress an audible gasp when she heard that Wilson was treating House. What did Lisa tell her? What was Wilson's specialty? Wilson was an oncologist.

Oncology. Cancer.

Arlene strode over to the information counter.

"I'm here to visit Dr Gregory House."

* * *

><p>Arlene Cuddy slipped into Room 263, and stood at the doorway. She nodded at the nurse, who grimly smiled back.<p>

House was leaning over the movable table, head resting in his arms on the table as the nurse clapped his back firmly to loosen the sputum that had collected in his lungs.

She could hear how he wheezed, struggling to breathe. She couldn't believe that this frail man in front of her was the same as the intimidating and ruggedly handsome doctor who had captured her daughter's heart. And who had doggedly insisted on curing her so many years ago.

House coughed breathlessly, a deep and whooping cough that caused his entire body to shake. It obviously hurt to cough – his hands rose to press as his chest as though that would help ease the stabbing pains. The nurse held the basin under his mouth as he spit out the sputum. She helped House lean back against the bed again after his coughing fit. He didn't open his eyes throughout the entire process. Arlene's hand rose to her mouth as the fluorescent lighting of the room illuminated how frail he really looked, with his face almost as white as the sheets and an oxygen cannula snaking out of his nose.

House sensed someone in the room with him, and dragged open his eyes, just barely.

"Hello, Greg."

His eyes widened at the sight of Arlene Cuddy. She walked slowly over and sat down in the chair next to his bed. Her bag was in her lap, and she gripped it tightly.

"Arlene," he rasped. He could barely be heard.

"Greg... I - " It was painful for Arlene to see him lying in the hospital bed, so weak. And for once, she didn't know what to say.

"How did you know I was here?"

"I have my sources."

He smiled slightly at that.

"Ever omniscient, huh."

She smirked. "I overheard some nurses talking just now."

"You're sick? Don't think I can find the time to cure you this time."

"You don't look up to it. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," he said hurriedly before he lapsed into a coughing fit. It seemed like forever before he stopped, breathing shallowly and rapidly. "It's just pneumonia. I'll be out in a few days. How's the hip."

She ignored his attempt to deflect. She knew it all too well – Lisa was a master at it too. "Don't lie to me," she admonished. "I know."

"Know what? There's nothing to know." He fingered the sheets, avoiding her gaze.

"You're Dr Wilson's patient. I know what that implies."

House didn't answer. He raised his head to stare at her momentarily with those brilliant blue eyes before averting his gaze to look out the window at the snow that was drifting slowly to the ground. Winter, the season of the absence of life, cold and chilly. Spring was when flowers bloomed and nature reawakened, when the smell of grass and flowers filled the air. Summer was all about energy and warmth, laughter and excitement. Autumn was the delicate beauty winding down towards the inevitable cold that awaited.

How perfect the season was for him. For where he was right now in his life.

A shiver ran down her spine as she saw through his eyes how broken he was and the deep sadness that permeated his very soul.

It was a long while before he answered. "I don't need your pity."

"This isn't pity." Arlene leaned forward towards him. "Is it treatable? How long more do you have?"

"Far too long for me." A bitter smile appeared on his lips. "But far too short for Wilson. He's making me stay around, putting off the inevitable."

_The inevitable._ Arlene recoiled slightly, stunned.

"Does… Does Lisa know?"

"She doesn't need to know."

"She has a right to know. She would want to know."

"She doesn't need to know." He reiterated. A fierce look of resolution flittered momentarily across his face. "Don't tell her."

"But she would – "

"She doesn't need to come back. She won't. She shouldn't have to," he insisted, "She was right to leave."

Arlene sighed. "The both of you are really idiots. _You_. You are a biggest idiot I've ever known, really. I don't know what in the heavens you were thinking when you drove your car into her house."

"I don't know too."

"So now what? You're going to keep her in the dark? Die without ever reconciling with the woman you love? Don't be an idiot, Greg."

"She's happy in New York. I'm here. Separate lives. She's happy. That's all that matters." He closed his eyes, and struggled to open them again.

"Oy vey! That's not true, what about – " she exclaimed, exasperated at his stubbornness. But her voice trailed off as she saw how the conversation was taking a toll on him, and her voice turned gentle. " – We'll talk about this another time. You should rest."

"Arlene. I know you like to meddle in things – "

She pursed her lips at him, offended. But her eyes remained soft and tender.

" - But just don't."

"Rest, Greg. Stop talking and just rest."

"_Please... _don't tell her_,_" he breathed. Their gazes connected for a while before his eyes fluttered close. She saw him shiver, and she pulled the blanket up higher to cover him.

Arlene sat there for a long time and simply watched him as he slept. She could hear him struggle to breathe even in his sleep. Footsteps of nurses walking around outside. The beeps of machinery. The stillness of the room, and of its occupant, somehow tore at her heart.

For once in her life, Arlene Cuddy didn't know what to do.

She was torn. Respect his wishes? Or tell Lisa?

Her thoughts were spinning in her mind. Despite her daughter vehemently saying otherwise, she was sure that somewhere deep in her heart, Lisa still loved Greg House. She could tell. Mother's instinct. And she knew Lisa would want to know about his condition. And she would be heartbroken if he were to leave without letting her say goodbye.

But would her daughter come back to him? Would Lisa be able to for once in her life, swallow her pride and need to have everything perfect, and come back to be with him, simply because he needed her? Despite all that he'd done? Would he let her back in, or chase her away?

Arlene Cuddy contemplated her choices. Both seemed wrong, yet equally right.

She picked up the phone, and dialed the number of her older daughter.


	9. Chapter 9

**I seem to be on a roll with this story. Thank you everyone for the reviews, and for sticking with this story thus far. I know it's painful to read at times, but this story has really taken on a life of its own, and it just comes out that way.**

**But after 8 chapters, we have finally come to _the_ moment. I hope you guys will enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. **

* * *

><p><em>You run away, cause I am not what you found<em>

_You're in my veins, and I cannot get you out_

- In My Veins, Andrew Belle.

* * *

><p>For the second time in two months, Lisa Cuddy found herself in PPTH.<p>

"_Lisa, I've been admitted for further tests in PPTH. The doctors said it would be better if you were here. Can you come?" _

"_Oh God. I'll drive over right now. Which room?" _

"_263."_

Room 263. The blinds were drawn, and she couldn't see through the glass walls. She stood outside the room, pausing momentarily, bracing herself to deal with her mother.

She didn't see Arlene sitting some distance away at the waiting area, half-obscured by a pillar, watching her daughter.

Taking a deep breath, she yanked open the sliding door.

* * *

><p>James Wilson sat by House's bedside, making his way through the paperwork that had piled up over the past few days while he had been trying to keep House out of the hospital. His tie was askew, and his shirt was wrinkled.<p>

The numbers and words started to blur, and Wilson felt his eyelids start to droop.

He shook his head to clear his mind. Shifting in his seat, he glanced over at House, who was asleep with his mouth slightly open. The rattle of his lungs seemed almost deafening in the room; each snuffle, each cough, each fight to draw breath a painful reminder to Wilson of how so very _close_ they were cutting it.

House shifted on the bed, hand unconsciously moving towards his back. Wilson recognized it as a sign of pain, the backache that was a constant now. He got up and adjusted the pillow behind the small of House's back.

House stirred. "Wilson."

"Hi," Wilson smiled, "Don't talk, just sleep now, okay? The meds are working. We'll have you out of here soon."

"I saw… Ar – " House didn't get to finish his sentence. Wilson rubbed House's back as he coughed, and as it eased, helped settle House back down.

"Make sure… she doesn't… tell…" mumbled House as he drifted off into sleep again.

Wilson was confused. Who did House see? But seeing how House was soundly asleep, he didn't pursue the matter, and sank back down in the recliner. He lowered his head into his hands. _Just a short nap_.

The sounds of heels clacking frantically outside the room, and of the door sliding open abruptly halted his descend into sleep.

* * *

><p>"Mom, how are you…"<p>

Cuddy's words were forgotten as she caught sight of the bed's occupant. She stood, transfixed at the sight in front of her, not quite believing what was in front of her eyes.

"Cuddy?" Wilson leapt to his feet, alarmed. "What are you… Who told you..."

"Lisa."

Cuddy spun around, and saw her mother. Standing hale and hearty behind her. Not lying in a hospital bed.

Wilson's eyes widened further. "_Arlene_?"

"M-mom? What kind of… is this some _joke_?" Cuddy spluttered.

"We need to talk," Arlene said simply. She stood there, unwavering.

Wilson glanced down back at House, who was still asleep. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down to prevent his blood pressure from going through the roof. This was falling apart by the minute. He walked over to the two Cuddy women.

"Outside. Now."

He ushered the Arlene and Cuddy out the door, and gently shut the door behind them. He glanced in to check. House hadn't even stirred.

He spun around to face Arlene, hands on his hips.

"You met House," he said flatly. "He mentioned meeting someone, but I didn't know who. Till now."

"Yes." Arlene was calm. As she had waited for her daughter to arrive, her conviction had only grown stronger; she knew she had made the right choice. She was absolutely sure.

Cuddy gazed at the room's door, still unable to speak. She couldn't see inside the room thanks to Wilson's careful positioning of himself between her and a direct view of the bed, but she couldn't take her eyes off the door. Gathering herself together, she gestured wildly at her mother. Her _infuriating_ mother.

"Mom, what is the meaning of all this? I rushed down from the hospital because you told me you were admitted. _You_. Not _him_. You can't play games like that!"

"It was the only way to get you here."

"Oh my _God_. Mother, you really are – "

"House is sick, Lisa."

"Yes, I can see that. Because I practically stumbled into his room, expecting to see my own mother!"

"I thought you should know."

Cuddy took in a deep breath, and counted to ten in her head. She steeled her heart to say the words she knew she didn't really believe. Not when she, in that split moment, had seen how... _sickly_ he looked. She didn't believe it, but she still had to say it.

"Mom. I moved away to New York to get _away_ from all of this madness. He's been hospitalized _countless_ times. This is just like any other. Why would I –"

"Ask Dr Wilson what House has."

"I don't need to know. I'm going back home, Mom, this is some insane game of yours and I'm not playing."

"_Ask him_, Lisa." Arlene said firmly, her eyes flashing.

Seeing the steely look in her mother's eyes, Cuddy knew she had no way out.

She sighed, and turned to look at Wilson, who had his palms shoved into his eyes and rubbing at his face. Maybe if he just closed his eyes, and tried to wake himself up from this nightmare, Cuddy and Arlene would disappear from his sight and this would not be happening.

Cuddy scrutinized Wilson, who looked exhausted and disheveled.

"What's going on, Wilson?" He was after all, her friend. And House was after all… occupying some small space in her heart that she had shoved somewhere and hidden safely, as hard as she tried to deny it.

Reluctant to reveal the entire truth, Wilson stuck to a half-truth. Though he had a niggling suspicion that Arlene knew everything.

"It's just a bout of pneumonia," he huffed, "The meds are working, he's getting out in a few days. Everything's fine."

Cuddy was about to open her mouth to tell her mom _See, everything's fine. This is a waste of my time_ but Arlene cut her off.

Arlene glared at Wilson. She saw a devoted best friend who was taking extremely good care of House, but she couldn't let him continue to hide the truth anymore.

"Tell her the truth, Dr Wilson."

"It… it is the truth."

Wilson was never a very good liar.

Arlene rolled her eyes, and decided to take matters into her own hands. "Greg is Dr Wilson's patient."

Cuddy didn't understand the implications of the statement at first. "So what? Wilson has been prescribing for House for years, and he's been the attending each time House has been - "

"You're not listening, Lisa. Greg is undergoing treatment. _Dr Wilson is his physician._"

Cuddy opened her mouth to refute her mother, but suddenly, like a bright light cutting through the fog, the truth dawned upon her. And it cut into her, painfully.

"I think you and Dr Wilson need to have a good chat."

With that, Arlene pushed past Wilson, and entered House's room. She closed the door behind her firmly, making it clear that the two of them were not to enter again until they had talked.

Wilson tried to be angry with Arlene, really. But all he found in himself was a regret that he hadn't been able to bring himself to make the difficult choice. And a sense of relief that the cat was finally out of the bag. That he didn't have to carry the burden of hiding from Cuddy the truth anymore.

Cuddy turned to him, her voice soft uncertain. "What's going on, Wilson?"

* * *

><p>Wilson found himself leading Cuddy to his office. As he shut the door, he felt something in him crack.<p>

The dam was breaking.

He tried as hard as he could to prevent it all from bursting out all at once, but he found that the trickle led to a steady stream, to a gush, and it all came spilling out of him. House beaten up in jail, picking House up, House disappearing for a year, the symptoms, the night he found out, how House initially didn't want treatment, the bad days, the good days, how the team was reacting and helping out…

Wilson couldn't stop.

It all came tumbling out like how a vessel too full had fallen apart, and all its hidden contents were crashing out into the open for all to see. He choked up. His voice wavered. He stumbled over his words, the truth rushing to escape from him, having been withheld for too long.

Cuddy found herself unable to process everything. Wilson's words seemingly floated over her, not really making an impact. She felt numb, cocooned in her own world.

"The previous time… I came back. He was…"

"That time… he had collapsed after diagnosing his patient." Wilson shook his head. "Fatigue, low blood cell counts… And he still diagnosed her correctly."

Cuddy's mind flashed back to their meeting – she had thought House looked unwell, and attributed it to ageing and his drug use; on hindsight, she really should have known better. How he had been in wheelchair, said no to the coffee, and barely eaten any of his Reuben. How she sensed something had been amiss.

Cuddy slumped on the couch, overwhelmed.

"Did… did he say why he didn't want me to know?"

Wilson could almost laugh at that. There were so many reasons. He looked out his balcony door at the setting sun, murmuring. "It depends on what kind of day it is…"

"What do you mean?"

"On a bad day, he says he deserves it, and he would rather not give you the satisfaction of… of seeing him suffer. Or he says he can't bear to see you because that hurts him more. And he won't be able to take it when you leave again. If it's a good day for him… he says he doesn't need you, doesn't deserve you, doesn't want to inflict pain on you… That you're happy and you don't need to know. That as long as you're happy, he's okay… he's happy for you. "

"I… I… Oh God, Wilson. I don't know what to say."

He turned to smile at her - a sad, knowing smile.

"What you say doesn't matter. The question is, what now?"

* * *

><p>She stood outside the room, just next to the nurses' station. Where House used to stand to watch <em>his<em> own patients. Invisible from the patient's viewpoint, but providing a perfectly clear view of what goes on in the room.

The blinds were open now; she could see everything. Wilson slipped into the room, and sat down next to Arlene. They spoke quietly for a while, and it ended with Arlene patting Wilson on the arm.

Cuddy leaned her forehead against the pillar, and closed her eyes. The past two hours had been overwhelming and just unbelievable, and she felt exhausted with the weight that had been placed on her shoulders.

"Lisa."

Arlene came to stand beside Cuddy, who opened her eyes and straightened herself.

"Mom."

"Dr Wilson told you everything."

"Yeah."

They watched House wake up, and smile slightly at the sight of Wilson. Then he began coughing. He sat up slowly with Wilson's help and leaned over the table as Wilson began to thump gently on his back.

He was… _weak_.

And it unnerved Cuddy, because for the past twenty years, she had been dealing with a force of nature – formidable, larger than life. Always browbeating his way through, hiding his true emotions and pain behind a façade of brick and stone, too afraid to let anyone through to see his weakness and his vulnerability. And now… he was accepting help from Wilson, and his team. Willingly and not pushing them away.

Arlene broke the silence. "What are you going to do?"

"I… I don't know."

"I didn't tell you what he told me," mused Arlene. "I asked him, _Greg, are you going to die without reconciling with the __woman you love_?"

"Mom…" Cuddy wasn't sure she wanted to hear it.

"He said, _She's happy. That's all that matters_."

The older woman's words hung in the air. They both knew very well what he meant by that.

"I'm not sure what to do… I don't know if I can come back."

"Why not?"

"He could have killed Rachel. He could have killed me. He drove his car and practically destroyed my house. He's the reason I had to leave this place I've worked in for the past twenty years."

"He's paid his dues. He's been to jail - "

"Sometimes you just can't forgive and forget. It's impossible."

"It's not impossible, it's just difficult. And you love him."

"No… No I don't. Not anymore." But the very expression on Cuddy's face negated that statement. And then, as if saying it again would convince herself and make it the truth, she repeated, "I don't love him anymore."

"I can see it in you, Lisa. _You do_. You're a stubborn woman who insists on getting perfection. You can't accept loving a man as flawed as Gregory House."

"It's not wrong to seek someone I can rely on and count on."

"And have you found that man yet? Because as far as I can tell, you aren't in a relationship with said perfect man yet." Arlene sniped, getting impatient with her daughter's hesitation.

Cuddy rolled her eyes.

"I'd never seen you so happy with anyone other than Greg. Why can't you just reconcile the fact that you don't need a perfect man to be happy?"

"He's more than _not perfect_. I can list all his flaws and probably need more than my fingers and toes!"

Arlene exhaled heavily. Her daughter had inherited her own mule-headedness. "For goodness' sake, Lisa. I know I've pushed you hard to succeed in life. Perhaps too harshly – "

She ignored Cuddy's odd look at the fact that she was actually admitting a mistake. Which never happened.

Arlene ploughed on, " - But for once, just once in your life, _follow your heart_. Stop letting your head get in the way, stop seeking that perfection that quite frankly, no one possesses."

Cuddy buried her head in her hands. "I don't think I can forgive him, Mom," Cuddy whispered harshly, "Not when he hurt me. I'm happy now… I'm not sure I can come back to this."

Seeing how her daughter was on the verge of tears, Arlene softened, and led her to a bench. Placing her arm around her daughter, she said gently, "You hurt him too. You dumped him over one pill when he was a recovering drug addict. And you, as a doctor, should have known that relapses are bound to have occurred. You were too harsh."

Cuddy dropped her eyes to the ground. She knew all that, but it didn't make it any easier hearing it from someone else, especially from her mother.

"Don't take the easy way out, Lisa. Don't run away."

Her word reminded Cuddy of the words she herself had told House. _You've always taken the easy way out_. But this time, he hadn't. He had chosen to let her be happy, instead of telling her the truth and getting her to come back to him.

The irony of her words and the whole situation was absolutely cruel. She shouldn't have said that. His job was to cure the incurable, diagnose the most difficult cases. And to do that meant that he never took the easy way out. Those were words she had spit out in a fit of anger when she thought he was taking Vicodin. But those pills he had taken… they were probably necessary. Prescribed legitimately. Not for his addiction. And despite her accusation, he didn't deny that they were Vicodin, nor clarify that it wasn't.

"_I need it for my pain." _

That was what he had said. He had chosen to be ambiguous, to let her think that he was still a miserable drug addict.

He chose to let her go.

Cuddy closed her eyes, and bit her lips as she finally understood everything that had gone on that day.

"But all we've done to hurt each other…"

"It doesn't matter now, Lisa," Arlene sighed as she turned to look into the room, where Wilson was helping House settle back into the bed again. "It doesn't matter anymore."

Cuddy followed her mother's gaze, and looked at the man who had given her happiness and bliss for one year until it had all come crashing down.

Her mother was right. It didn't matter anymore.

That was why House had chosen to hide his illness from her. Because illness, and the prospect of death, had the power to bring people together. It was a false notion that all humans took comfort in – that if they were to unite, to make each other happier, to fight it together… maybe they wouldn't have to face death.

All harsh words, all stupid actions, all hurt and pain caused… They were all insignificant in the face of death. That was why in the moments before death, family and friends come together. Enemies make peace with one another. And if you were alone, a random stranger would be willing to sit with you so you wouldn't be alone. Because nothing mattered anymore.

And House knew all that. Instead of doing what so many others would have done, he was punishing himself for all that he'd done to her. He would rather leave without seeing her again, than to force her to come back to him, and to burden her.

It was his way of loving her.

Cuddy began to cry in earnest now.

She hated how she still loved him. It was like he was in her very veins. Because now it began to hurt again, when in New York, it didn't. It _hurt _to know that he was sick, and there was nothing they could do about it. Wilson was trying his best, but sometimes trying your best just wasn't good enough. And it definitely hurt to know that their relationship was so screwed up that… that it required something like _cancer_ to bring them back together again.

Most of all, it hurt so much more now that she had decided what she was going to do.

Because she was going to open herself up to more hurt, more sadness, more pain by coming back to him. Not because of him, and what he would do. No, because she was going to have to watch the man she _loved_ fade away.

Arlene's arm tightened around her daughter.

"I… I really was happy with him, Mom. So happy."

"I know."

"But now… I'm scared of what's to come."

"I know. And that's perfectly normal." Arlene rubbed her daughter's shoulder. "But you two still have time. Make it count. Be happy _together_."

Cuddy leaned into her mother. She hadn't been in her mom's embrace quite this way for perhaps the past twenty, maybe even thirty years. Arlene had never quite been the cuddly or encouraging type. Which made this whole moment all the more precious and incredible for Cuddy.

"You're strong, Lisa," murmured Arlene. "If you can run a whole hospital, you can find your way back to him again. Just follow your heart."

Cuddy disengaged herself from her mother's embrace, and leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek.

"Thank you, Mom."

* * *

><p>Cuddy sat next to his bed and waited.<p>

He woke, his eyelids slowly fluttering open and his blue eyes slowly revealed themselves.

And she found herself reaching towards him, slipping her hand into his. It seemed so much smaller than she remembered it to be.

Six years. Six years since they last touched each other. Even when she had come back just a month back, she didn't touch him. She had hugged Wilson, embraced her colleagues and friends, but she had stood in front of House, sat in front of him, had the most intense conversation with him… And not touched him, a single time. No hug, no handshake.

She could feel the tremble of his hands. He didn't initiate further contact, didn't squeeze her hand, and didn't even dare move.

She didn't know it was because he had dreamed of this moment for the past few months, maybe even years. That he would somehow find his way back into her life again, and that she would forgive him and reach out to him, even though he knew he didn't deserve it at all.

And he was afraid to really touch her, only to have her leave him behind again, lost and floundering.

"Cuddy," he breathed.

She smiled. A real, genuine smile. The same smile that had captured his heart so many years ago. Like when all was good.

"Hi."

He frowned, and murmured, "You've been crying."

And he reached up towards her face. He hesitated. He didn't want her to draw away from him. But very slowly, his hand trembling, he used the pad of his thumb to rub at her cheek, wiping away the trail of tears that had not quite dried yet. And she let him.

He felt like his heart was breaking. It reminded him of how much he loved her and wanted her by his side again. He withdrew his hand quickly.

"Why are you here?"

She squeezed his hand, and then let go, and stood up.

For a moment, his heart stopped. She was going to leave. He closed his eyes. He couldn't handle seeing her walk away from him again, not when he had come so close to her this time.

But then the hospital bed sank slightly, and then she was sitting on the bed, in front of him.

"To see you."

House closed his eyes and tried to decide on what to do. Her, in front of him, in the flesh, made him reconsider his resolution to let her be happy without knowing the truth. But he couldn't be selfish. He couldn't give her the burden, not when he had already shared it with Wilson, who was suffering because of him. He was silent.

"I know everything."

"It's just pneumonia. I'm not dying or anything."

At the words_ I'm not dying_, Cuddy felt the tears well up in her eyes again. "I said _everything_."

"There is nothing else to know." He turned his head away from her, knowing that his eyes would betray the truth. He had no energy left to continue putting up his walls anymore. Everything would be laid bare.

She leaned in, and gently turned his face towards her own.

"Don't lie to me, House. Just… don't. It doesn't matter anymore, not when I know everything."

He reluctantly raised his eyes to look into hers. He had missed her eyes, and the warmth they held.

He dropped his gaze and muttered, "Arlene told you. And then Wilson probably blabbed too."

"They were right to do so."

He needed to drive her away, not suck her into his web of illness and despair. He choked out the words that were probably the greatest untruth he had ever told. "I don't need you here, Cuddy."

But she knew what he was doing. He had done it too many times for it to work now. Driving others away was what he did all the time, but this time, she wasn't going to let him drive her away. She took his hands into hers, and squeezed them.

"Maybe _I_ need _you_. Maybe we both need each other."

He was honestly stunned at the fact that she could possibly need him. But she didn't deserve him. Not after all he'd done. Lisa Cuddy deserved so much more than a man like him, and a life with him. Especially at this point. Who knew how much longer he had?

"I don't deserve you, Cuddy. Not when I've – "

"It doesn't matter anymore."

"It does. You can't just ignore the fact that – "

"_It doesn't_. It really doesn't matter anymore," she insisted. "I love you, House. Enough to want to forgive you despite your insane actions, and to want to be with you." Her voice cracked as she recalled what Wilson told her. "I would never... I would never wish this upon you. I can't believe you hid this from me."

"I don't want you to come back or forgive or love me because I'm dying… That's an obligation, a guilt complex thing," he persisted defiantly, not giving up. There was too much at stake. He couldn't let her back in, just like that.

"_Don't_. Don't try to drive me away. Because this is hard for me too, and I really might leave if you keep trying to do so."

All the fight seemed to leave him, and he slumped back onto the bed. He was too tired of driving her away when each night all he wanted was to have her next to him again. He was fucking scared. He had fucking cancer. All he wanted was to have her come back again, so he could find comfort in her, draw strength from her, love her and be with her.

"I do love you," he whispered brokenly, "I always have. But that doesn't mean I deserve to be with you. Because I've – "

She placed her fingers on his lips, shutting him up. "Then nothing else matters. The past doesn't matter. Not at this point. Not anymore."

House looked at her, and tried to understand her motivations for doing something so huge and so difficult. He couldn't fathom how she could do it. How she could love a man like him. How she could just ignore all that had happened. Because he couldn't even forgive himself.

But he was tired of being without her. Of being unselfish and letting her be happy without him, even though it killed him. Being unselfish and self-sacrificing was too tiring and way too over-rated.

He pushed himself up, and moved towards her, struggling slightly. And he placed his head on her shoulder, leaning into her, inhaling deeply at her scent. Her arms found their way around his thin frame, and she embraced him.

He couldn't quite believe where he was right now. In her arms. Even though he was undeserving and had hurt her so many times, she had once again forgiven him, and come back. She was saving him from himself yet again, as she had done so many times before. He had thought he had used up all his chances with her. But oh god, she was actually _here_.

And he smiled, because he felt unbelievably happy. That he had actually lucked out and gotten that one last chance with her despite all the shit he had done.

He had given up, really. He didn't even really care for his job anymore. The team was good. He had trained them well. He had been holding on for Wilson, but really, he was just waiting for the day he could leave everything behind.

But now… now he felt _alive_ again, more alive than he had felt in the past six years. Which was of course the greatest irony possible, since he was _dying_.

And so he laughed. A soft chuckle, but definitely a laugh.

She heard and felt him laugh. She had rarely heard him laugh before, even when they were together, and this one was carefree and joyful. Knowing that she was the reason he was laughing, she smiled too. Because quite unexpectedly in this moment, she found herself not afraid of what was to come. She was happy here with him, in this moment.

As his laughter faded away, she became aware of the rattle in his lungs and his chest rising and falling sharply; the exhaustion permeating every single bone in his body. His body was working in overdrive to fight off the pneumonia, and he was spent from their conversation. He was so thin, so weak.

She settled him back onto the bed, and held his hand as he drifted off to sleep again. He didn't let go of her hand; it was as if he was afraid to lose her again if he were to let go.

When she was sure he was deeply asleep, she cried.


	10. Chapter 10

Cuddy and Wilson sat together in the cafeteria, both nursing steaming hot cups of coffee, food untouched in front of them.

"What do you intend to do?"

"I don't know."

"Well… He won't say it, but he wants you to come back."

"I can't drop everything in New York, Wilson… It's easy to said than done. Rachel's enjoying herself in school, I have a job and – "

"You're happy."

"Yeah. I am."

"That's why he didn't want to tell you, you know."

"I know."

"Are you coming back only because he's dying, Cuddy? Because that's the last reason he wants you to come back for…" Wilson asked frankly. "He hates pity."

Cuddy found in her found a conviction that had somehow appeared after visiting House in his room. The tears were gone now. Crying never helped anything, and wouldn't right now.

"This isn't pity. This is… knowing that it really doesn't matter anymore. Not with his condition."

Wilson looked at her, long and hard. He needed to make things clear. There was no way she could take off again if the going got tough, because that would crush House. Which was the last thing he needed.

"Cuddy… It's not going to be pretty. You know what he's like. And if you're going to leave, then – "

"I'm back, Wilson. For real. I know I decided to leave him when I couldn't handle the real him with the Vicodin… And maybe that was a mistake. Perhaps my expectations were too high, and I totally overlooked the harsh truth that addicts _will_ relapse at one point or another – "

The look on Wilson's face told her that he agreed with her. She knew he thought that breaking up with House over one pill was a mistake. He had told her that House had confided in him, saying that he only had the intention of taking one pill. Perhaps breaking up with House had been inevitable in their relationship with their vastly different personalities, but the circumstances it had ultimately occurred in had been totally crazy.

" – but it really doesn't matter anymore, does it, Wilson? He did some crazy stuff, but he's House. And frankly, I've been running away because I still have feelings for him and this place reminded me far too much about him."

"You're taking a big step, accepting him back again after all that has happened."

"If you can do it, why not me?"

The two of them exchanged bittersweet smiles. House had really put them through the wringer for the past decade. How many times had they had their own discussions about House, and what they needed to do to intervene? And still, the two of them forgave House again and again, and were drawn to him like moths to a flame.

"Wilson."

"Yeah."

"How is he, really? I want the truth. Not the sugar-coated one that we know you've probably been giving House."

Wilson's smile faded abruptly, and he looked back down at the coffee in his hand. It was cold, he noticed absently.

"It's… it's palliative at best, Cuddy. It was too late when we found out." Wilson ran his hands through his hair. "It did shrink the tumor slightly, but the latest tests… weren't good."

Cuddy seeing the distraught look on the usually unflappable oncologist's face, reached across the table to take his hand into hers.

"You've done a great job so far."

Wilson harrumphed. "You can't choose your friends. And if I could have my way, he wouldn't be working anymore. He's a stubborn bastard."

"He insisted, huh?"

"Even Jones couldn't say no to him. We all know what he's like. It was all he had left. The team's been helping out here and – "

"How long more does he have, Wilson?" Cuddy squeezed Wilson's hand tightly, half afraid to hear the answer. "I need to know. I really do."

Wilson swallowed hard. He had avoided thinking about this for as long as possible, but this bout of pneumonia had forced him to recalculate and take stock of everything. He had been keeping it to himself, choosing to believe if no one else knew, maybe it wouldn't matter at all.

"Four… five months?" he whispered. "If he continues being the mule-headed ass that he is, maybe… six, seven."

"Okay," Cuddy breathed, swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat. "Okay."

* * *

><p>"You just couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you."<p>

"You're glad I did it, Greg. Admit it." Arlene smirked as she sat down next to him. She reached over and patted his arm rather condescendingly. Already, she could see a marked difference in him. An improvement. A fire in his eyes that had been extinguished but now was starting to burn again.

He rolled his eyes at her. "It was a dying man's request and you couldn't even honor it!"

She slapped him gently on the hand. "You are not dying. Not yet."

"It's wrong to hit a dying man," he shot back. But he caught sight of the frown on her face, and he amended his words. "Fine. A _sick_ man."

"Stop it, Greg. Now that she's back, the least you can do is fight harder."

He seemed to deflate. "I know."

"But?" Arlene could tell that he had reservations.

"I can't expect her to drop everything in New York. Because I am going to die, and then she'll have given it all up for nothing," he mumbled. "And the truth is that _I am going to die_, so there's no use denying that."

"Tush! Lisa will make her own decisions."

House snorted. He fixed upon her his blue eyes, but didn't say anything, then turned away. The two of them sat in silence for a while, both eyes fixed on the television screen. It was when the male lead onscreen was on his knees proposing to the love of his life that House spoke.

"Thank you, Arlene… For you know…"

"You're welcome. Now shut up. You're interrupting a very important moment."

She could see the small smile that quirked at his lips as he closed his eyes. And she too, smiled her own - a self-satisfied smile.

* * *

><p>A few days later, Wilson stepped into House's room, only to find an empty bed. He spun on his heels, and walked over to the nurses' station.<p>

"Nurse! Where's Dr House?"

He expected her to not know, but she simply shrugged and said, "He's been walking around the floor. He'll be by in about 2 minutes. We tried to get him back into bed, but…"

"But he was being himself," sighed Wilson. "It's okay. Thanks."

Sure enough, House limped around the corner, using his IV pole as a support. Wilson's hands automatically went to his hips as he stood dead in the middle of House's path.

"Why are you out of bed?"

"I'm all better already, Dr Wilson!" House chirped breezily. He saw Wilson's disapproving gaze, and switched his face dramatically to put on a pout. "Awwwww man… _Please_, mom?"

"House."

"My leg hurts," interjected House as he bent slightly to place his hand over his scarred thigh. "And I have been lying in bed for the past week."

Wilson relented, and began to walk alongside House. "Neuropathic?"

House nodded tersely. He'd already taken the meds and applied the cream Wilson had prescribed, but for some reason, they weren't working. But then again, his leg had never been particularly compliant.

They walked together in silence for a while. Wilson observed House out of the corner of his eye. Something was bugging him. Now all Wilson had to do was wait for the inevitable conversation to take place.

"Wilson."

_Here we go._ "Yeah."

"… Never mind."

"You can't initiate a conversation then just abruptly end it with a _never mind_ without even giving me a clue what it's about."

"Yes I can."

"No, you can't. Is this about Cuddy?"

The lack of a response told Wilson that it indeed was so.

"House…"

"I thought it was clear we weren't going to talk about it."

"Stop doubting both yourself and Cuddy."

House sighed. Wilson in his mode would never stop. It was easier to just talk to him. "It's not fair to her. This whole stupid cancer thing… it's not fair to her. And to you."

"Are you saying that killing yourself now would make everything better?"

"No…"

"Then it's okay. Because I am your friend. And I chose to do this. So has Cuddy. And since friendship seems to be such a foreign concept to you, this is me letting you know that this is what friends do. And you can't choose your friends. So, _stop it_."

House turned to look at Wilson, at a loss for words. With a slight pang in his heart, Wilson smiled at House reassuringly. The concept of such unconditional friendship and relationships was something House still couldn't accept fully.

They rounded the corner, only to see Cuddy standing at House's room door. Next to her was a little girl.

House's eyes widened as he realized who that brown-haired little girl was. He shook his head imperceptibly as he made eye contact with Cuddy.

"She wants to see you," Cuddy mouthed.

House shook his head more firmly, and turned abruptly to try escape. But the walking had taken a toll on him, and he sagged against his IV pole. Wilson's arms immediately went around him, and House found most of his weight being supported by Wilson.

Before he knew it, he was helped back into his room, and settled into bed. The _I told you so_ sentiments practically radiated off Wilson, who even raised the rails of the bed to trap House in bed, ignoring the dirty look that House shot at him.

But all was forgotten as Cuddy and Rachel entered the room.

Rachel was nine now, he calculated.

He closed his eyes. Maybe if he pretended to be exhausted and asleep they would all go away.

"Rachel, honey. Why don't you say hi to Wilson first?"

Wilson got the hint, and led Rachel out of the room by the hand. House kept his eyes closed.

"House?"

"I'm tired."

"Don't do this to her. She wanted to come see you. She remembers you. The first three months after you left, she kept asking for you."

"She was three, Cuddy. She won't know who I am now."

"She does, actually. She insisted on coming to see you."

"Does she know?"

"She kept asking why I was coming back to Princeton so often over the past week, and - "

"You told her. Great, yet another person who knows I'm dying."

"All she knows is that you're sick, House. Just let her say hi. She's missed you."

"I was with you for barely a year. Kids don't miss people they've known for only a year."

Cuddy pursed her lips and folded her arms in frustration. "So what, am I supposed to just send her home right now? Because that would totally make her day."

"It's better if she doesn't get all chummy with me – "

"Mom?" Rachel slid open the door and peeked in. "Can I come in?"

"Sure, sweetie."

House watched Rachel warily as she crossed the room and came to stand beside Cuddy. To his surprise, Rachel sat down on the bed next to him, and looked him in the eye, unafraid and not shy at all.

"Hi House."

House looked briefly at Cuddy. He got the message loud and clear from her fierce stare. _Don't you dare brush her off_. He sighed, and nodded back at Rachel.

"Hi."

Knowing that the two of them were better together when she wasn't around, Cuddy excused herself from the room, and left.

An awkward silence descended on the room, the only sounds being that of the monitors and machines. House noticed Rachel's wide brown eyes surveying him, taking note of the tubes that led out of his body.

"I'm fine, you know."

"Mom said you were sick."

"I'm fine."

"But you're in the hospital."

"I'm getting out soon."

"Are you dying?"

House was a little taken aback by the perceptiveness and honesty displayed by the young girl sitting just inches away from him. She wasn't shy at all. No doubt like her mother.

He couldn't bring himself to lie to her.

"Not yet… But everyone dies at some point."

Rachel hoisted herself further up the bed, and turned to face him, sitting cross-legged. "I remember you, you know."

"I'm surprised you do."

"Mom was too."

Another silence fell upon the room.

"Are you happy in New York?" House asked rather awkwardly.

"School's fun. Our apartment is nice…"

As Rachel's eyes lit up and she started describing to him her life in New York, House realized how much of a life she and Cuddy had built away from Princeton. And that it wasn't fair to expect them to come back.

" – Mom asked whether I would mind moving back to Princeton. I said I don't mind."

House frowned, and pinned Rachel with the full force of his piercing gaze.

"Wouldn't you prefer to stay in New York with all your friends?"

"I – "

"Stay in New York, Rachel. Aren't you happier there with all your friends that you've made in the past few year? You wouldn't want to come back to Princeton, and have to start all over again! There will be new friends to make, a new school to adjust to, and - "

"House – "

"Rachel. Hey. I think House needs to rest."

They were interrupted by Cuddy. Unbeknownst to them, Cuddy and Wilson had been sitting on a bench outside the room, watching House and Rachel. They had noticed House start to tire, but struggle to stay awake and become strangely agitated as the conversation progressed.

Wilson took Rachel by the hand, leading her out of the room, promising her some lunch in the cafeteria. But before she stepped out of the room, Rachel turned back to look at House.

"You're sick, House. And Mom wants to come back to take care of you. Me too. And if Mom is happier with you, I don't mind. I think I'll be happier around you too," she spoke at breakneck speed. "And don't think you scare me when you try to stare at me that way. I know you… You're just trying to scare me. And it doesn't work."

She bounced on her toes before waving a goodbye. "I hope you feel better soon, House."

She flashed a wide grin, a cheeky glint in her eyes before slipping her hand into Wilson's and leaving.

All the eyes of the adults in the room widened simultaneously, and Cuddy and House could only watch as Rachel walked off with Wilson, who shot them a bewildered look before letting himself be led away.

"She's bright," muttered House.

Cuddy sat down on the spot Rachel had vacated. "Like you said she would be. She skipped a grade, you know."

"Yeah…" House grudgingly agreed. "What is this I hear about you considering moving back?"

"House…"

"Don't, Cuddy. You can't uproot yourself and your daughter from the place you've lived in for the past four years. _Don't_."

"I've already made up my mind."

"I'm going to die, and then you would have moved back for nothing. It's not worth it."

"You think you're not worth it?"

"It just doesn't make sense for you to give up what you've had for the past four years in New York to come back now, at this point of time."

"Rachel doesn't mind. And I want to come back. I was running away, and left behind my friends and family – "

"That was my fault. Which is why you shouldn't – "

"Yes, it was. But now I want to come back. And since Rachel doesn't mind, we are going to."

"You really shouldn't, Cuddy. _Don't do this_."

Seeing the genuinely perplexed look on House's face, Cuddy took his hand into hers. She leaned in, and fixed a determined gaze on him, her blue-grey eyes piercing his cerulean ones.

"House. Listen to me. You're pushing me away again. You think I am coming back out of pity? Or that you don't deserve it?" she murmured. "We are going to move back. In fact, I've already spoken to Jones. I'll be working in Endocrinology. My friends are all here. My family is here. After four years away, I'm just coming home."

Before he could protest, she leaned over, and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. "Now rest, so that we can get you discharged soon."

"Cuddy…"

"I'm not going to change my mind, so whatever you say won't matter. Give it up. This is one argument you can't win."

House found himself too tired to protest, and too tired to engage in a battle of the wills against someone as strong-willed as her. And for once in his life, maybe he was willing to accept things as they came to him. He looked at her. He could still barely believe that she had come back to him despite all he'd done. And now, she was really coming back.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."


	11. Chapter 11

Cuddy slipped into the office, which was shrouded in darkness. She gently shifted House's legs, sitting down on the ottoman.

"Hey."

House opened his eyes and wearily raised his hand to rub his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Lunch. Wilson's with a patient so it's just you and me."

"Not hungry."

"You have to eat something. My treat."

House closed his eyes. "I'm really not hungry."

Cuddy sighed. He looked exhausted. "House… maybe you should consider retiring… or at least cutting down your hours here."

"You sound like Wilson. Which means you sound about eighty years old, by the way."

"I know he's asked you to stop many times. He has good reason to. He just wants what's best for you. _We _want what's best for you."

"Cuddy…"

"You _fell_ yesterday. You fell and you couldn't get up and it was Rachel who found you and it _freaked her out_."

"This is why you shouldn't have told her I was sick. Now she's going to - "

"Don't," Cuddy snapped. "Don't say that I shouldn't have done this or I shouldn't have done that. It's _done_. I've made my decisions. There is no changing anything."

She sighed as she saw House shift his gaze away from her. She took his hand into hers, and softened her tone.

"It's been two weeks since we moved back, House. Two weeks. We're back. That's it. My mum's happy that we're back. Rachel has adapted so well it's like we never left Princeton. And I'm happy being a real doctor in Endocrinology. What must we do to convince you that coming back isn't a mistake? _Tell me_, because you don't seem to be able to see that we're happy back here, home."

He had no reply to that. She leaned in, and kissed him on the cheek.

"We're happy here," she whispered into his ear. "I'm happy to be back here with you. So is Rachel. Stop being a stubborn idiot and just believe me."

She felt, rather than saw, House nod as she placed her hand gently on his cheek.

"Dr House, we have – Oops! Um… I'm _so sorry_ to interrupt," Masters stopped abruptly at the door, a file in her hands. She blushed furiously at having interrupted what seemed like an intimate moment. "Um, Dr House, we have a new case. The patient's family specifically requested for you."

Cuddy stood up and adjusted her lab coat. "I'll bring up some lunch for you. We'll eat here," she said firmly in her _no arguments_ voice. House rolled his eyes in response, but nodded. Cuddy reached out, and pulled him to his feet. She watched him make his way over to the conference room before she walked out of his office.

He sank into his chair, adjusting the pillow slightly. The team was already assembled around the table. "So what do we have?"

Masters looked down at the file. Taub, who was sitting next to her, leaned in to look over her shoulder.

"Four year old boy with persistent fever – "

"Wait a minute," Taub interrupted, raising a finger. "Just hang on a second."

"Dr Taub! I was reading that!"

"_Just wait a minute_."

He practically yanked the file from Masters' hands, and stared at it, mouth falling open slightly as he surveyed the file. Masters made a grab for the file, but Taub brushed her off easily.

"_Manners_, people." House raised his hand to his mouth as he feigned a shocked look. "I'm absolutely shocked at the barbarity displayed by you Jews. Appalling!"

For once, Taub didn't respond to the pointed barb. Instead, he glanced briefly – almost worriedly – at Chase, who returned a bewildered look. Taub looked back down at the file.

"Uh… It says here that the patient's mother is Allison Cameron."

* * *

><p>Wilson stepped into the room just as the team was leaving to conduct the battery of tests they had decided on. "Lunch," he announced. "Cuddy got paged so I'm here instead." He held out the paper bag, which House grudgingly took.<p>

"You'll never guess who my new patient is…" House peered into the bag and nearly dropped it. "What the hell is this?"

"Wholewheat bread. And grapes. Being ill is an extra good motivation to start eating a balanced diet, don't you think? Who's the patient?"

House snorted and was about to reject the food when he saw Wilson's rather intimidating _don't mess with me_ glare. _"_It's good for you,"Wilson stressed.

Muttering under his breath, House took a bite out of the sandwich, and could barely contain his cringe. "This is disgusting… At least you got me chips. And oh, it's Cameron's kid."

Wilson's eyes widened, and he did a double take. "Allison Cameron? Ex-moral compass of your team? Chase's ex-wife? Formerly in love with you? Brown hair, then blonde? ER? Tried to be Cuddy for a day but decided she couldn't say no to you?"

"Blink, Wilson, before your eyes shrivel up from a lack of moisture. Yes, all of the above. And no, according to Masters, her hair is back to brown now."

"Wow… She flew in to get you to treat her kid?"

"Apparently, she's based in Boston now."

"Wow. And has a kid."

"Yup."

"Married?"

"Do you really think Allison Cameron would have a kid without getting married?"

"_Wow._ So what's up with her kid?"

"Stop with the wows, Wilson. I got it the first time. Evidently she doesn't know what's wrong. Team's running the tests."

"How's Chase taking it?"

"He looks shell-shocked. Understandably so." House put down the sandwich, which was only half-eaten. "Done."

"House…"

"Mom…" House whined. "I ate already!"

"Seriously. Do you really need me to go through this again? I – " Wilson was interrupted by his pager. " – Dammit."

"Another dying patient beckons. See ya."

Wilson narrowed his eyes. He pushed across the table a bottle of water before standing up. "You better drink all of this. And don't forget we're going to review the results of your latest tests together. _Drink it_."

House rolled his eyes and made a face.

"I'm serious! And just to let you know, if you keep making faces like that, it's going to be permanent."

"Maybe if you stopped giving me reasons to do so, I would. Goodbye, Wilson," drawled House as he waved his fingers in the air. He dragged out his words, as though Wilson couldn't understand them. "Stop fussing."

Wilson huffed in frustration, but the two of them exchanged small smiles before he walked out.

* * *

><p>House was at his desk, surfing the net for research articles on rare pediatric ailments that could possibly fit the symptoms of young Adam. The music of The Who played in the background.<p>

"You've lost weight."

House looked up. Allison Cameron stood at the threshold of his office, her arms folded as she leaned against the door. He checked his watch. He had predicted that she would appear an hour ago. He clicked the pause button of his iPod.

"You're an hour late."

"I was with my husband." She unfolded her arms, and walked in. She sat down on the chair in front of him, frowning slightly. "You really have lost weight."

House shrugged. "Food in the cafeteria isn't as great as it used to be."

"I heard about all the madness that occurred after I left."

"A lot of things have changed."

Cameron felt herself smile as she took in his words. She'd known he could do some crazy things, and she'd seen much of them, but what she'd heard through the grapevine had been almost unbelievable. "That's an understatement."

"I became Cuddy's boyfriend. Then we broke up. Then I was the ex-boyfriend and the Vicodin addict. Then I drove my car into her house. Then I went to jail. So yes, I am now the ex-convict doctor of PPTH," he said plainly.

"I worked in Africa for a year, got married to Dylan, a social worker, moved to Boston, am heading the ER, and go by the name of Dr Richardson now. Oh, and I have a son, Adam."

"Figures that you would go for someone with a bleeding heart like yours… Wait, does he have a chronic, no wait... Even better, a _terminal_ illness?"

As per someone who'd worked under him for years and knew what he was like, Cameron didn't bat an eyelid. She just looked at him with a slight smile on her face.

House leaned back in his desk chair, and surveyed his former fellow. Older and definitely wiser now, she had an aura of confidence around her. And she wasn't looking at him with _that _look anymore. The look of slight longing. Thank goodness for that. But he could also see subtle lines of worry, and shadows under her eyes from sleepless nights, no doubt about Adam's illness.

He hesitated. "We'll figure out what's wrong with him, you know that."

"I know. He's in the hands of extremely competent doctors. And they will do their best. So will you."

He raised his eyebrows. "Huh. It's different treating a doctor's kid. No pleading for us to find out what's wrong and save him. No accusing me of not putting in my best effort because I haven't been to see your son personally yet."

"Especially if the doctor happens to have worked under you for three years, and knows how good your team is. Yeah, it's different," she smiled. "That's more likely to come from Dylan. He's the one who insisted we bring Adam to come see you, since he knows I've worked under you before."

But then the smile slid off her face, and she leaned in. "How are you, House, really? Because you really don't look well. And you're using a forearm crutch."

"You're doing that caring thing again. Do I need to tell you again that it's annoying? _God_, you're still the same." House shot back. The crutch was still a sore point. Cuddy and Wilson had forced him to use it, saying that it was safer in his condition. They had confiscated all his canes. "Leg's not that great anymore. This process called aging, I think."

She laughed. "You're still the same too."

"People don't change."

House's pager went off, and he got to his feet unsteadily. It didn't escape Cameron's notice.

"Go be with your husband and son, Cameron." He was at the door when he turned back. "We'll figure out what's wrong with Adam."

It struck her that he was actually calling his patient – her son – by his name. Correctly. Not referring to him as _the kid_, or mixing up his name, or even getting his gender wrong. House had done all that plenty of times with his other patients. Names were never really important to him. They were just the patients, his puzzles.

But before she could comment on it, he was headed out the door. She sighed, and resolved to find out more. Something was definitely up.

* * *

><p>House entered the lab, where the team was assembled. The first round of tests had all come back negative or inconclusive. And Adam's fever was spiking.<p>

With instructions to conduct even more tests, consult Wilson and to order cold saline and cooling blankets, the team trailed out of the lab.

"Chase. Need to talk to you."

Chase backtracked, and slumped on the stool next to House's.

"I need to know whether you can remain on this case objectively."

Chase straightened slightly. "I can."

House scrutinized Chase, and saw nothing to prove otherwise. "Okay."

The lab fell silent.

"House?"

"Spit it out."

"I… She…" Chase fumbled. "Do you think that without the whole Dibala thing, Cameron and I would have worked out?"

House sighed and rubbed his forehead. He'd been expecting something like this to come up. Chase had liked Cameron right from the start of their fellowship. And he was still single. A guy with his looks had plenty of girls to pick from. That said something.

"You two started off screwed up. You guys began as friends-with-benefits. That's never a good foundation for a relationship."

"She said you'd influenced me for the worse."

"She told me that too, actually." House tapped his cane on the floor. "You're actually more like me than you think. I know Foreman is supposedly my _protege_ or _clone_ or whatever," House rolled his eyes, showing what he truly thought of that popular opinion, "... But I've always thought that you were most like me in your reasoning, deductions and willingness to take risks."

"I need… I need to know that's not a bad thing. Is it?"

"You're asking me. The person who influenced you negatively," House remarked sarcastically. "Years after she said that. _Right_."

Chase twiddled his fingers. "She made it sound like I became a worse doctor, and didn't know how to distinguish between good and evil anymore."

"Chase. You're a good doctor."

Chase only looked at House oddly, looking as if he couldn't understand that simple statement. House sighed. "You were an ass-licker, you know? A yes man, always agreeing with me. Well… You're not one anymore."

By now, Chase was openly staring at House. All the years he'd worked for House, and he'd never had a conversation as open as this with him. And that. That was _praise_, coming from House. That was House's own screwed up version of praise. House scoffed at Chase's look of surprise. Chase could count the number of times he, or anyone else from the team, received outright praise from House and the number probably wouldn't go past single digits, despite it having been years.

"You think I don't notice that you have gotten the most correct diagnoses? Or that you've been standing up to me since you rejoined the team after she left? That you've been steering the differentials more so than Foreman has been? You lose focus sometimes, but you're ultimately a good doctor."

House paused. This _was _a bit awkward for him. He cleared his throat.

"Cameron is an moral compass with insanely strict standards. Just because you aren't one too doesn't make you a bad doctor. It just means you're willing to push the boundaries. That the grey area of your idea of right and wrong is bigger than hers. You're good with kids. You're a good surgeon. You specialize in cardiology and intensive care. You were head of surgery for a year. That _usually_ means you're a pretty good doctor."

House exhaled heavily. He did not know where that came from. Such conversations were usually only with his patients – people he would never ever see again. "This conversation never happened," he winced and shook his head. "I have a reputation to maintain."

Chase was speechless. He was incredibly flattered, of course, but he couldn't help but feel uneasy, considering the circumstances House was in.

He liked House. He did. House was a father figure to him. And to hear all that…

Before he knew it, he was on his feet with his arms tight around House. He was vaguely reminded of the time that they all thought House had cancer.

House too, recalled that moment. He awkwardly raised his hands to pat Chase's back. "Please don't tell me you're crying."

It was a long while before Chase pulled away, and nodded. "We never talked about this," he agreed.

House noted thankfully that Chase's eyes were dry. "Good."

* * *

><p>Cameron sat some distance away outside her son's room, and watched as House limped in and sat down on the bed. A rash had developed, and he wanted to see it for himself. Wilson was with him, having just completed a biopsy of Adam's swollen lymph nodes.<p>

She watched as House examined Adam. She'd known that House was good with kids, but she rarely saw it in action. And watching him interact with her son was a whole new perspective. He didn't baby them. Kids _talked_ to him. They _trusted_ him. They had the most enlightening conversations together. She'd never seen Adam communicate so openly with a doctor before. Especially one supposedly as intimidating as House.

"He's good with kids." Cuddy sat down next to Cameron. "It's quite amazing, isn't it? It helps that he's almost a kid himself."

"Dr Cuddy? I thought you…"

"Call me Lisa. I'm not your boss anymore." Cuddy gave Cameron a quick embrace. "I came back," she said simply.

"I thought he drove a car into your house, and you…" Then Cameron seemed to realize what she was saying, and she stopped. "I'm sorry. That was out of line, I…"

"It's okay." Cuddy smiled, a tinge of sadness in her eyes. "Everyone knows about it anyway."

Then it struck Cameron that perhaps, it was all linked.

"You came back. And you two are together…" She pieced it all together in her mind. "House is ill, isn't he? That's why he's wearing the mask while checking Adam… He doesn't look well… His liver?"

Cuddy chuckled. "All of you who've worked in diagnostics… He really rubbed off on you guys. Even now, after years away from him, you think like him, drawing deductions and solving puzzles."

Cameron smiled and shrugged. "He is a pretty good teacher."

Then Cuddy sobered, and she turned to look at House. He was talking to Adam but pointing to Wilson, who looked half-amused and half-annoyed. Probably making a joke at Wilson's expense.

"Cancer," she said softly. "Pancreatic."

"Oh my god," whispered Cameron. Tears immediately welled up in her eyes. "Oh my god… I'm so sorry… How long…?"

As Cuddy updated Cameron, she found herself oddly at ease with it all. There were no more waterworks, nor the sense of overwhelming helplessness. It was just… facts. She wondered if that was how House and Wilson now felt, months after finding out. She'd now known for nearly a month, and it seemed like she was finally coming to accept it.

They say there are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. It had taken surprisingly little time to come to the last step. In fact, it seemed like she'd almost skipped all the other steps. It probably was due to the fact that they were all doctors, and because House insisted on going on like usual – like everything was normal and nothing had changed, when in fact, it was the opposite. Was it because he wanted to keep going till the very end? Or he was clinging on to the one thing that had given him meaning through the years?

But then again, it sounded like maybe they were still stuck in the first stage then. Denial.

* * *

><p>"Why must you wear that?" Adam reached out to try and grab the mask off House's face.<p>

"Stop that." House caught Adam's hand by the wrist and turned it over to look at his palm. He noticed that the skin had begun peeling. "You're sick, I'm not. And I don't want to get sick."

"Dr Wilson isn't wearing one."

"He's not very smart."

"But he's a doctor, like Mommy," insisted Adam, "And Daddy says that all doctors are very smart, like Mommy."

Wilson jumped in, "Adam. It's okay. I should have worn it just now but I forgot. And now I'm standing way over here so I don't have to wear one." He shot a glare at House. "I'm stronger than Dr House anyway."

House scoffed, but didn't say anything. He was concentrating on checking Adam once over. Adam seemed to accept the explanation. He was quiet until he piped up, "My Mommy says that you're her friend."

House looked up from the rash that had developed on Adam's stomach. His hands were clinical and probing, but gentle.

"We used to work together."

"But you're old." Adam's eyebrows knitted together as he stared at the grizzly man in front of him. "You look as old as Grandpa. You have grey hair, like him."

House could hear Wilson chortle in the background. He was going to kill him later. He raised his eyebrows at the small blonde boy in front of him. "I was her boss."

"So you could boss her around? Like how she asks me to do stuff I don't want to do?"

"Yup."

"Cool! She makes me eat my sprouts and peas," Adam declared as he wriggled on the bed. "I hate sprouts and peas."

"Stop moving," House ordered. "You're awfully energetic for someone with a high fever." He softened his tone as he saw Adam's crestfallen look. "I made her do a lot of things she didn't want to do. Like_, a lot_."

"Maybe that's why she makes me do stuff I don't want to do!"

"Maybe."

Adam kept up a steady stream of chatter as House clinically examined his entire body. House cocked his eyebrow at the boy's chatter about his mom, dad, gramps, gramma, nanny and their wonderful house in Boston.

Usually, the team would be doing examinations like these. But for some inexplicable reason, he felt the need to do this himself. He tried to excuse this by justifying that it was important to see what kind of rash it was. But who was he kidding? Cameron was his duckling. As much as he wanted to deny it, he would always feel a sense of protectiveness towards his ducklings. Especially the original three. Not that he would show it as outwardly as what he was doing now. It was always in small, hidden gestures that sometimes, nobody even noticed. And he was fine with that. Happy with that, even.

But then again, here he was, examining Cameron's kid personally.

Adam continued chattering on, drawing smiles and laughter from Wilson, who quite frankly, enjoyed the company of the small boy. But he was more amused at how House was dealing with Adam. If Adam were some other patient, House would have snapped at him and asked him to shut his trap already, mused Wilson.

"I am sure your dad is a real pleasure," House remarked as he stood up and raised the railings of the bed. "I don't think your mom used to talk quite so much." He tried to hide from Wilson how much effort it took him to stand up. Luckily, Wilson was too preoccupied looking at the small boy in the bed to hear the grunt of effort and see the death grip House had on his crutch and the railings of the bed.

"My dad is the best in the whole world!" Adam extended his arms as far as they would go.

House snorted, yanking off the mask. Wilson burst into laughter. "Try get some rest, Adam. I'll see you later," he chuckled as he followed House out the door.

"As old as grandpa, huh?" teased Wilson as he punched House's arm lightly. "You _indulged_ him, House. You're getting soft, like a grandpa! Gregory House is becoming a softie."

"Shut up," growled House. "If you dare say a word…"

"That means you agree with me! Oh you are _so_ getting soft, House."

They spotted Cuddy and Cameron at the waiting area next to the nurses' station, and started making their way over, all the while bickering with each other.

Suddenly, mid-sentence, House gripped Wilson's forearm tightly. "I need to sit down," he muttered.

Without saying a word, Wilson helped him over to the nearest bench. He caught the eye of Cuddy and Cameron, who hurried over.

Cuddy sat down next to House, who had snaked an arm around his stomach and had his head in his hand. She discreetly rubbed his lower back. "You okay? Do you need anything?"

"Just give me a minute." His voice was strained. He didn't shy away from her touch.

Cuddy and Wilson exchanged looks. This had already happened several times.

Several tense moments passed in the hallway.

Cameron tried to dry her tears, but House heard her sniffles. When he could, he raised his head, took one look at Cameron's face, and then groaned.

"You told her, didn't you?" he turned to Cuddy and fixed her with his most accusing glare. "Now she's all weepy and she's going to go all caring over me. Probably wants to marry me now."

Cameron retorted, her voice thick and clogged up. "I'm _married_. With a kid. And you don't think I deserved to know just now during our conversation that you, my ex-boss, has cancer?" A hint of exasperation appeared as she threw her hands in the air. "You could have mentioned it, you know, in passing? I am going to _kill_ your team. Especially Foreman and Chase. They didn't mention it at all!"

House ignored the latter part of her small speech. "Divorce rates are rising, every single year. And you've already been divorced once, haven't you?"

"Dylan and I have a very stable and loving marriage!" she retorted. "And I do not – "

"Two bleeding hearts. I'm sure you two hit off right from the start. Go care for everyone together. Not me, thanks. Save the rest of the world with your – "

"Enough!" Wilson and Cuddy both cut in at the same time.

"House. You're going back to rest in your office," barked Cuddy. She nodded at Wilson, who pulled House up and led him towards the elevators. Sure, he had been able to exchange barbs with Cameron, but they could tell he was off. It was even more apparent in the fact that House didn't put up a protest.

Cuddy turned to face Cameron. "He gets like that when he's not feeling well, as you know. Don't take it to heart."

Cameron laughed and cried at the same time. "He's trying to maintain his image, isn't he?"

"Very stubbornly," Cuddy sighed. She gestured to Adam, who was peering over his bed rails at them. "Go back to Adam, Allison. And dry your tears before he thinks you're crying because of him."

"Lisa…"Cameron squeezed Cuddy's hand gently. "Thanks for telling me. And please, keep me updated. He was my boss, after all."

"He would hate that, but I will. Now go be with your son." Cuddy gave Cameron a quick hug before heading towards the elevators to find House and Wilson.


	12. Chapter 12

"It's metastasized," Wilson said tonelessly as he looked at the test results. "It's metastasized to your liver."

A long pause.

Then, "Okay."

Yet another long pause as Wilson tried to understand what House meant by, _okay_.

"_Okay_? I tell you that you're dying and all you say is _okay_?" Wilson flung the flimsy sheet of paper down onto his desk as he looked incredulously at House. "Is that it?"

"Knew it was coming. It's been four months."

"God._.._ I've seen all kinds of reactions, you know? Tears. Disbelief. Shock. Hysterics. People _beg_ me to save their lives. People who say _okay_ are definitely few and far between… Figures that you would be one of them." Wilson paced up and down in front of House, and then turned to look at him. "Why are you okay with this?"

"I'm a doctor too."

Wilson let out a short bark of laughter before going to stand at his balcony door. His hands were on his hips as he faced the balcony. To any other person, it would have looked like he was unable to face the patient he had just given the death sentence to.

But House knew his best friend better. Wilson always felt bad for giving someone a death sentence, as anyone would. But it was his job. He was good at it. He would assure them that he would make it as easy as possible and that they were in good hands. He wouldn't be unable to face them. He would face them squarely, and tell them that he will do his best for them.

Right now, though, Wilson was unable to face _this _patient, because he feeling awful for not having been able to do more. For not having been able to make his best friend one of his numerous success cases, and one of the many patients he manages to pull back from the brink of death when it seems virtually impossible.

"Wilson… Stop beating yourself up." House leaned back on the couch, his hand coming to rest on his abdomen.

"Maybe if I…" Wilson's voice broke. "Maybe if I did…" He trailed off as he turned around and saw House shake his head.

"Wilson…"

"You should have told me earlier!" Wilson practically exploded, flinging his hands into the air. "Why did you have to be a stubborn idiot, keeping it to yourself, huh? If you'd told me earlier, the whole prognosis could have been different! We could have… I could have..."

House remained quiet. It wouldn't have changed things, actually. But he knew Wilson would always remain upset at the fact that House had hidden it from him for two, nearly three weeks. And he would always wonder what could have been, if only House had let him know right from the start.

"Wilson… Enough. Just stop… _Stop._"

Wilson stopped pacing the room.

"Sit down. Or you're going to burst a vessel."

Wilson huffed, and then flung himself down on the couch next to House.

"It's okay, you know."

"It's not, House." Wilson's voice came out soft and sad. "Why do you think it's okay?"

"Okay, fine. Maybe it's not."

"You should have told me earlier. I could have done more about – "

"Wilson, what did I say? I said _stop_."

"House…"

"I said it's okay…" House paused, then added, "Am I the one with cancer? Because it seems like I'm comforting you right now."

"Ha ha very funny."

"It _is_ quite funny. Me, comforting one of the top oncologists in the country when I'm his patient who's dying of cancer."

Wilson was about to continue, but he saw the look of unease that was undoubtedly on House's face. He was obviously uncomfortable with dealing with the emotions that had been evoked by this whole new revelation.

He sighed, and decided to let it go. For now.

"Was that supposed to be a compliment? Because it doesn't make me feel better at all."

House didn't reply.

They sat there, not talking, both not knowing what exactly to say. House wasn't any other patient of Wilson's, clueless about the human body and medicine and science. There was no false comfort or reassurances for Wilson to offer. They both knew what was to come. They had always known. This was the inevitable.

And this was how they dealt with it.

There was a knock on the door, and Cuddy entered the room. She took in the sight before her – House seated on the couch. Wilson slumped next to him, head in his hands. The entire room reeked of defeat.

House stood up abruptly, nearly losing his balance. He'd had enough of comforting distraught doctors. He left Wilson's office, not quite able to meet Cuddy's eyes.

Cuddy stared at his retreating back for a while, and then went to sit next to Wilson.

Nothing was said. She knew. She just… knew.

She knew what Wilson had just told House. And she knew that House had left not because he was upset about it, but because he couldn't handle the overwhelming emotions that would no doubt come from her and Wilson.

She felt Wilson take her hand, and squeeze it tightly. She leaned over, and placed her head on his shoulder. Everything still felt comfortably numb at the moment.

"You tried your best," she said softly.

She could feel him shake his head.

The two of them sat there together for a long time.

* * *

><p>House shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he listened to the team discuss Adam's condition. The pain had been intensifying over the past week. At least now he knew where it was coming from.<p>

"… That doesn't fit. Doesn't explain the persistent fever… What about lupus?"

As usual, House perked up when he heard the word lupus. He immediately barked out, "_It's not lupus_!"

Silence fell as the team ran out of ideas. Lupus was always the last resort anyway.

Chase stirred his coffee. Taub looked through the patient file. Foreman stared at the whiteboard. Masters flipped through the thick textbook.

House hesitated, and then decided it was time to break the news. He couldn't resist it after lupus was dragged into the differential. It just seemed… fitting.

"It would have been perfect, though... to have lupus as the diagnosis for my last case."

Four heads swiveled to look at him, each with varying degrees of skepticism, shock and disbelief.

"What? What last case?" Taub was the first one to gather his wits about him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

House shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "It's my last case… Great drama, eh? A former fellow's relative… A kid… Now all it needs is a diagnosis of lupus."

There was a loaded silence in the room as the team tried to unravel the implications behind House's nonchalant statement.

Chase felt sick. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach about this.

"You… got fired?" Foreman ventured.

House opened his mouth to scorn at that absurd statement and throw an insult, but he saw a look on Foreman's face that indicated that it was not simply a stupid question.

It was, he realised, a feeble attempt to try find any reason, anything, that wasn't the truth.

It came out more gently than he originally intended it to.

"The cancer has metastasized to my liver…" he paused, "I found out yesterday. So this is my last case."

They took it harder than he thought they would. The silence in the room was heavy and suffocating, and House felt like he couldn't breathe with whatever it was clogging the atmosphere of the room.

"You guys… are good at your jobs you know. It won't make a difference."

He stared at the whiteboard, very aware of the fact that four pairs of eyes were still on him. He swore he could hear all four of them swallow hard. He assumed it wasn't because he'd just praised them.

He didn't think they would be so affected by it. After all, he wasn't the nicest boss on earth. He'd actually thought that they would be able to continue as if nothing had happened. That was how it had been anyway – when he went to jail, and came back.

Even Foreman, who'd had to relinquish his position as department head at the request of Jones when he came back from jail, looked kind of distraught. Even Taub, who only saw him as a boss and nothing more, looked upset. Masters looked like she was about to cry. No, wait. There _were_ tears in her eyes. Chase… Chase took it hard, as expected.

It was Foreman who broke the silence; even then, the rest of the differential proceeded jerkily and awkwardly. House even threw in some absurd, impossible diagnoses to try and get a raise out of all of them, to no avail. Masters just regarded him with a baleful look of woe in her eyes.

When they finally reached a diagnosis of Kawasaki Disease, there wasn't any sense of satisfaction or triumph.

* * *

><p>That night, Cuddy came home to find the babysitter already gone. She expected to find Rachel and House in front of the TV together. Instead, she found House asleep on her couch and covered with a blanket, leg propped up on several pillows. He still lived with Wilson, but had taken to sleeping over occasionally. It helped that she had found a place just two blocks away from the loft.<p>

She went over to Rachel's room, and found her daughter reading a book on her bed. Cuddy went over and sat down next to her on the bed.

"Hi sweetie."

Rachel looked up from her book. "Hi."

"Sorry I'm home late. Our department had a meeting. Have you had dinner?"

Rachel nodded.

Cuddy frowned. Something was wrong. Usually, Rachel would chatter non-stop about her day at school, letting Cuddy know about all the various exciting things that had happened in school.

"What's wrong, sweetie?"

Rachel started sniffling as she adamantly continued to read - no, _look_ - at her book. Cuddy reached out to take the book, and gently tilt Rachel's head so that they could make eye contact. "What happened?"

"Is House very sick?" asked Rachel, very softly. As soon as the question slipped out of her mouth, she wrapped her arms around her mother and buried her head in her mother's shoulder.

Alarm bells were set off in Cuddy's head. "Why are you asking? What happened earlier?"

"House came home just now… He paid Becky and then she left… I told him I hadn't had dinner, and he smiled at me in a very sad way and said he would cook for me. I was really happy, because he said he'd make my favourite pasta…"

Rachel began crying harder.

"I was talking to him about school today and for once he didn't even comment about my stupid classmates and teachers. He just listened and nodded. He didn't even complain that I was talking too much, like he usually does. But halfway through he started calling for me because I went to my room to get something… And he was holding his stomach and sweating and he was sitting down… He asked me to find his pills in his coat pocket, and his voice was so soft... I gave them to him after I found them in the living room and after a while he was okay… I told him he should rest and it's okay I can eat when you come home, but he insisted on continuing…"

Rachel hiccupped, and Cuddy ran her fingers through her daughter's hair. "It's okay, sweetie…"

She couldn't quite believe that her daughter was so perceptive. And observant about what House would usually do, and how this afternoon, he had not been himself.

"Then later he went to the living room and we started watching the monster trucks together while I ate… he said he wasn't hungry… then he fell asleep and I could tell he was hurting and I didn't want to wake him and so I covered him with the blanket… and then I came here to read because I didn't want to disturb him…"

Cuddy became vaguely aware of someone watching them, and she looked up to find House in the doorway. They looked at each other for a while before he turned away.

She wiped away Rachel's tears with her thumbs, and told her very gently, "Remember when I told you House was sick?"

"Yeah," Rachel hiccupped.

"Well… he's getting sicker… The medication isn't working anymore."

"Uncle Wilson can't help him anymore?"

"No… No he can't…" Cuddy's voice cracked. "I'm sorry, sweetie..."

Rachel hugged her mother harder, and cried in earnest.

"Rachel… It's okay." _No, it's not okay_. "It's okay, really…"

"I don't want House to be sick…" she sobbed, "We only just came back."

"I know…" soothed Cuddy, who was desperately trying not to sound too upset herself. There was a twisty feeling in her gut that had been escalating since they had found out about it the day before. And now, faced with a near hysterical Rachel, it felt a hundred times worse.

"I know… I don't want him to be sick too... But House is going to feel worse if you're sad around him, you know? He wants us all not to feel sad. He wants us to be happy and not worried about him… So can you do that?"

Rachel nodded very slowly, her sobs dying down to occasional sniffles.

It was half an hour before she could be coaxed to bed. Cuddy left the room, switching off the lights, before heading into her own bedroom. As she expected, House was lying on his side of the bed, curled up and seemingly sleeping.

After washing up, she clambered onto the bed, and lay down beside him. His back was to her. She leaned in towards him, resting her forehead on his back, which was now far too boney for her liking. She snaked her arms around his thin frame, and closed her eyes. He was breathing slowly and steadily, and she timed her breaths to coincide with his.

She didn't know where it came from. It started somewhere deep in her, and it was only after she realized that the pillow was wet that she realized she was crying. The tears just kept coming, and wouldn't stop. She felt like she'd been socked in the gut. She breathed through her mouth, not wanting to disturb him with her sniffles.

She only realized he wasn't sleeping when he spoke

"I'm sorry… about Rachel… everything… I…" he said roughly.

The sorry wasn't just for Rachel being frightened, or for exposing Rachel to illness and death so early in her life. He was sorry that it had finally and inevitably, come to this. There was no more finding hope in medicine and science. It was now harsh reality that his downward slide had begun.

She just hung on tighter to him. The tears wouldn't stop, and they just kept flowing and flowing and flowing down her cheeks. He tried to turn around to face her, but she wouldn't let him.

"Cuddy…" He moved his right hand to clutch at her wrist. Her hands were fisted in his white tee. He gently pried her hands away from his t-shirt, and threaded his fingers through hers. "Don't cry…" he whispered awkwardly. "Please don't cry…"

When that didn't work, he tried a more lighthearted approach. "I already did this for Wilson, you know... I'm the one who's…" He thought it better he didn't say it out loud. "… And I'm comforting you two? A little ironic, don't you think?"

But she only cried harder, and hugged him tighter.

With much difficulty, he turned around and faced her. He pulled her head to his chest. The tears dampened his t-shirt as she cried, her tiny body shaking.

"How can… I don't want…" She couldn't even form proper sentences. "I just… _House_… I…"

"It's okay, Cuddy…"

"It's not okay… Stop saying it's okay… It's _not_… I just…"

So he stopped. He pressed a kiss to her temple, and then stopped.

"I just… I don't want you to…"

She couldn't even say it out loud.

"I… I don't want to too… But I will. I have to."

"I hate you… I hate you for the six years that passed," she cried, pushing him away. "I hate you for driving into my house... I hate you for making me leave, and for you going to jail. I hate you for not letting me know earlier_. I hate you, House_."

The blankets rustled as she turned her back to him, and curled up away from him.

She always did that. She always let her mouth get ahead of her. And, her rational mind always ruled over her heart. And so he was still inexplicably afraid that she really did just realize that she hated him, and that she was going to leave once again, as she once did.

It was irrational, but since she came back, he'd always had the fear she was going to leave again. He was scared that she would see that she'd made a mistake coming back to a dying man. Just like she thought it had been a mistake to enter a relationship with an unreliable and unpredictable recovering drug addict. And look how that ended.

"You don't hate me, Cuddy…" he said softly. "Please don't say that you hate me… Don't say what you'll regret later…"

He lay on his back and looked at the ceiling. There was a gaping space between their bodies. When her breathing had evened out, and he thought she'd fallen asleep, he allowed himself to close his eyes.

Then he felt the bed move as she turned back towards him. She slid her arm onto his stomach. He obliged, and turned on his side to face her. They were so close; they could feel each other's huffs of air when they breathed. He looked at her tear-streaked face, illuminated by the moonlight that peeked in through the curtains. He gently thumbed away the tear tracks on her cheeks.

"It's okay."

They both knew that _it _didn't only refer to his illness.

"I'm sorry…" she mumbled, "I don't hate you."

"It's okay," he repeated.

"I hate how screwed up we are."

"I know."

"I just want more time."

"I'll try."

"I don't want… I don't want you to… _House_…" she closed her eyes as more tears leaked out of the corner of her eyes. "It's harder being left behind."

He had nothing to say to that.


	13. Chapter 13

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm sorry it's your last day here." Jones shook her head at the man seated in front of her desk.

House snorted. He was not oblivious to the fact that he had stepped on many toes in his time in PPTH. He had blackmailed a few, insulted most, and most definitely infuriated all; he was _infamous_.

"Your cases help raise PPTH's profile in the international medical community," Jones fixed her stare on him. "And the Diagnostics Department pulls in donors. There _is_ a reason Dr Cuddy and I both didn't fire you. You really think we'd let you run amok in our hospital if we didn't stand to benefit from it?"

"Oh, _you._" He flapped his hand at her, mocking her heartfelt praise by batting his eyelids in feigned embarrassment. "Stop it!"

But of course, the fact that he really did look uncomfortable with the praise didn't escape Jones.

"I'm serious, Dr House. Thank you for your contributions to the hospital for the past twenty years." She stood up, and extended her hand. "Including the damaged machinery, countless patient complaints, the lawsuits," she joked. "They were good training for our technicians, HR, and lawyers."

That got her a smirk. He stood up and shook her hand. The light-hearted mood faded away to a more somber one.

She couldn't help but think that it was the passing of an era – was there going to be a doctor as brilliant as Gregory House in this hospital ever again? His team was good, but they weren't comparable to the real McCoy. Nothing was ever really as good as the original, was it?

Their handshake was firm, but friendly.

"Thank you," he said as he raised his eyes to look at her, "For letting me come back."

Then as swiftly as he'd entered her office, he left.

* * *

><p>Wilson stood beside House in the elevator, which was otherwise empty.<p>

"Need help packing?"

"Since it's free labour you're offering... Yes."

"I'll come by at the end of the day."

Then, silence.

The lift doors opened, and they stepped out of the elevator together. Wilson walked beside House towards their offices, perfectly in tandem as usual. They now walked at a slower speed, but Wilson still managed to make it look natural.

They had walked down these halls together for the past decade. And this was going to be one of the last times they did so together.

"Try not to get into trouble for once…" Wilson managed a weak smile as they stopped outside House's office. He felt nauseous at the sense of finality that seemed to permeate the very air around them. "It's your last day after all."

As he was about to walk away, he spotted something in House's office that made him turn back. Through the glass walls, he could see a smattering of gifts on House's desk. Wilson snorted as he saw what some of them were. Those who obviously didn't know House very well, had sent cards or flowers. Those who knew House well, sent him alcohol and cigars.

As expected, the news that Dr Gregory House was retiring spread quickly. PPTH's gossip mill was notoriously well updated. Reactions were mixed – at least, that was what Wilson heard.

Amongst some, there was almost a grudging sense of respect, and regret that a brilliant mind like House's was leaving their hospital. After all, his skill as a doctor, and his fame, had brought to the hospital innumerable donations from wealthy donors, and increased visibility in the global medical community.

Amongst very few, probably just enough for Wilson to count on one hand, were those who regarded House with some sort of exasperated affection. Those were the staff who had been lucky enough to catch a glimpse of House's oft-concealed soft side, especially with his child patients and the patients who had truly connected with him.

But most thanked the gods for finally ridding the hospital of Gregory House, but they were few and far between. Not that House had mellowed, or found himself in the good books of most of the staff. He was still the same bastard who drove into his girlfriend's house.

What changed, Wilson deduced, was the fact that people knew House was dying.

And they weren't immune to the idea of one of their own – bastard or not – succumbing to one of countless diseases they fought against everyday as doctors and nurses.

"Everybody loves you when you're dying," House remarked lightly as they both peered in the glass door.

"Yeah," Wilson breathed, vaguely recalling a conversation that had taken place years earlier. "Yeah."

House turned to look at his best friend. "I'll be good, Mom."

He prodded Wilson with his crutch, causing him to stumble in the direction of his office.

* * *

><p>House stood in the middle of the conference room, surveying his team. Masters, Foreman, Chase and Taub sat in front of him, looking at him rather apprehensively. They had a case, but were waiting for results to come back. With an unpleasant start, he realized that they were waiting for him to give some sort of speech.<p>

He snorted. Again. "Are you four waiting for me to give a speech?"

As expected, it was Masters who shrugged. "That's what people do when they retire, right?" She gestured to the cake she'd bought in front of her. "I even bought cake. _Good_ cake."

House could practically feel his eyes jangling as he rolled them.

Taub piped up, "I told you he isn't the kind of person who will do this. This _is_ House, you know."

House narrowed his eyes. Just for that…

"Go forth, disciples, to preach the Good News," He raised his forearm crutch in the air, and pointed individually to each of them. "Perform miracles. Raise the dead. Cure the incurable… And if you ever screw up big time, please don't ever mention that you've worked under me."

They rolled their eyes at him in unison as he plopped down in his chair, and cut into the rather enticing-looking cake.

"This..." he gestured at Masters with his mouth half-full with cake, "is really not bad at all." They were all just glad that it was a cake, and day health-wise, good enough for him to take a second helping. It helped to ease some of the awkwardness.

Half an hour and three quarters of a cake later, only House and Foreman were left in the conference room together as the rest of the team went to check on the patient and retrieve test results.

With a weary sigh, House leaned forward on the table, and placed his head on his arms. The festivities, if they could even be termed so, had been surprisingly draining. It was time for some painkillers.

As he lifted his head off the table to glance around for his pills, he saw a hand holding his meds in front of you. Foreman's hands. He blinked, and realized that his arm had unconsciously crept around his stomach. Foreman had no doubt noticed, and had gone to get the pills from his coat jacket.

He accepted the pills with a nod of thanks. He popped two in his mouth. A silence fell upon the room. He'd never been close to Foreman, but years of working together made the silence somewhat comfortable.

Foreman was grateful for the silence. It was better than having insults or jokes lobed at him. And definitely better than discussing the fact that he was going to become department head for real, with no more House to fall back on for anymore. _For real._ Each time he'd headed the department, House was still somewhere out there in the world – jail, Mayfield, some tropical island. But this time… House would be gone.

As in, _really_ _gone_.

"Stop worrying. You did fine the previous times, you'll do fine now."

Foreman looked up from the chart he was holding. House's head was still in his arms, but he was definitely mumbling to Foreman.

"I…"

"And stop worrying that you're like me… You're not. You're not even _House-lite_."

Foreman didn't really know what to say. Everyone said he was just like House.

House's voice was muffled, but Foreman could hear every word. "You aren't as willing to take risks. You are ambitious, but prefer to play it safe. You don't think outside the box, and are a rule-stickler. You don't wear the labcoat because you don't want to, like me, but because you want to assert your authority. You're really not like me, even in your thinking. Maybe you have picked up some of my quirks here and there, since I vaguely remember you getting fired from another hospital because of that… But you're still nothing like me… _You're boring_. I'm not."

Foreman was silent for a while. "Okay."

"Good." House buried his head in his arms again. "You're a good doctor. At the very least, our spectacular cure rate didn't drop drastically while I was gone."

"Um… Okay."

"Good."

"House…?" Foreman ventured. "I… I know we haven't had the best relationship…"

"You think? That's a total understatement."

"I… have learnt a lot from you."

House regarded him oddly, then posed a question he didn't expect. "Do you regret taking up the fellowship with me all those years ago? Do you see yourself as that unfeeling doctor you feared you would become, and thus resigned to prevent?"

Foreman took a deep breath. "No."

"That's good enough for me."

They both knew this was the furthest both of them could go. It was enough for them.

Then in a last-ditch attempt to salvage their conversation, House piped up. "You are now the guardian of the sacred whiteboard. Do not disappoint."

* * *

><p>With Taub, it was a brief handshake, and a meaningful glance between them.<p>

Masters hugged him briefly, and there were what looked suspiciously like tears in her eyes.

"You're still a real nerd with a terrible dress sense you know that?"

"I really learnt a lot from you, House."

"I am glad you've managed to get over your compulsive honesty. It's not perfect, but at least you can somewhat twist the truth now. But…" he hesitated as he tried to wriggle out of her embrace. "That's who you are, so don't try to hard to change."

"I've worked with your team for a few years now, and I don't think I've been corrupted by them." Masters looked rather proud of that fact.

"Good. And for goodness' sake, stop wearing those belts and poofy blouses. Even better, go get advice from Cuddy."

* * *

><p>As the sun began to set, Cuddy and Wilson came to help pack up. House didn't help at all. They shot him annoyed glares as he ordered them around.<p>

"Servant Boy!"

Wilson replied with a flare of the nostrils as he packed more of House's belongings into the boxes. Cuddy, on the other hand, shot House a warning look, and he relented with a dramatic sigh.

He was sipping some organic herbal remedy that Cuddy had insisted he take when there was a knock on the door.

"We just came by to say thank you," Dylan Richardson walked over, and extended his hand.

House put his red mug down, and shook his hand. Their handshake was barely over when Adam clambered towards him, and hugged him.

"Thank you, Dr House," Adam proclaimed jubilantly. "Mommy said you helped make me better."

House extricated himself from the small child's iron wrap around his neck, and nodded. "You," he remarked dryly, "are just as emotional as your mother."

Adam scampered off, and entwined himself around his father's legs. He peered up at his mother.

Sure enough, Cameron had barely moved from the door. Her hand was over her mouth, and House could see her mouth was turned down at the corners, the way she looked when she was barely suppressing her tears.

As they made eye contact, she managed to compose bring herself to walk over and sit down on the ottoman. She leaned over. She didn't miss the slightest tinge of yellow in the whites of his eyes. And House knew that she had noticed it. He grimaced at her, just so very slightly, willing her not to go into histrionics.

She took a deep breath, calming herself, and hugged him, "Thank you," she murmured in his ear. Then she let go, and with a peck to his cheek, stood up.

"What, no kiss on the lips?" House tried to make light of the whole situation, knowing how close it was to a full-out melodramatic farewell, since this _was_ Cameron.

Cuddy interrupted with a warning "House!" from his desk. He waggled his eyebrows at her.

Dylan only laughed. "Allison did tell me about how she forced a date with you. All I can say is… I'm glad it didn't work out. And Dr Chase is a great guy. But… I would never have met her otherwise." He smiled at his wife.

"God, Cameron. It's great you married a sap who's just like you."

She huffed at him exasperatedly. But then her expression softened, and she said quietly, "I'm serious. Thank you, House."

"The team contributed to the diagnosis too."

"And I thanked them too."

"You and Chase…?"

"We spoke, and straightened things out."

"Good."

She regarded him oddly. "You care about him the most, don't you?"

House didn't bother to hide it. "He's been with me the longest."

She smiled at him, happy to see him not denying so. She knew that there was some sort of affection in him for all his team members, and it was good to see him not deny it.

"Take care of yourself, House." He could see her lips trembling.

She stood up, and walked over to Dylan, who wrapped his arm around her waist as a sign of comfort. Evidently, Dylan knew.

Wilson and Cuddy both walked over to hug Cameron, and shake Dylan's and Adam's hands.

House looked at the sappy scene in front of him. He considered telling it like it was – that the next time Cameron saw him, he would be dead. But for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to taint her memory of this goodbye.

He settled for a simple "Goodbye" as he watched Cameron lift Adam into her arms, and left together with Dylan. She was happy with her family.

By now, Cuddy and Wilson had finished packing, and Chase had appeared, walking in through the conference room door. Chase took one of the two boxes while Wilson picked the other up. Cuddy offered House a hand up from his recliner.

"Do you think I get to bring the recliner home?" House stared rather wistfully at his recliner. It had been his bed away from home.

"We're one step ahead of you," Cuddy leaned in to kiss him.

"I'm bringing it over to the loft tomorrow," Chase explained.

"Knew you were good for something other than beautifying the surroundings," House smirked. He walked towards the door.

Very briefly, at the threshold of the door, House turned back slowly to look at his office and the conference room. Cuddy came to stand next to him. She looked up at him, her left hand gently caressing his jaw.

She slipped her right hand into the warmth of his left.

"Let's go."

"Okay," he said quietly, and he turned away from his office.

She gently led him towards the elevator. She didn't look back, and neither did he. She wanted so much to look at the office while it was still his, but knew that she couldn't make it any harder for him than it already was. She squeezed his hand more tightly as they walked away.

Wilson exchanged glances with Chase, and they both looked back at the sign on the door that said _GREGORY HOUSE, M.D._ No words were exchanged, but they knew. They understood.

After all the drama of the years past, this was an understated farewell, almost unbefitting of a doctor who had been larger than life, filling the hallways with his arrogance, insults, undoubted brilliance and sometimes, sheer havoc. House's departure from the hospital was quiet and unassuming.

Wilson turned off the lights, his fingers lingering on the light switch for a brief moment of time.

Then the office was shrouded in darkness, and the day came to a close.


	14. Chapter 14

"Wilson," Cuddy's breathless voice greeted him as he picked up his phone, "Have you seen House?"

Wilson's eyebrows snapped together instantly. "Isn't he at your place?"

"He's supposed to be… but he's not here." The tone of panic in Cuddy's voice was unmistakable. "He's not answering his cell either."

"Maybe he just ran out to the store to – "

There was a rustle over the phone. "Hang on, I found something…"

Wilson pressed his phone to his ear as he waited for Cuddy to continue. There was a clatter as Cuddy presumably dropped the phone. Then, silence.

"Cuddy?" Wilson tried to ignore the tendrils of panic that had begun to grip his heart. "Are you there? Cuddy?"

"He's gone." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"He's probably playing some kind of joke on you. Let me call him and – "

"He left a note." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Wilson, he's gone."

A flurry of honks sounded as Wilson cut through three lanes of traffic to make a barely legal 180 degree turn.

* * *

><p>Wilson inspected the note as Cuddy paced in front of him agitatedly. He racked his brains – did House mention having to go away for a while? No. Were there any hints in their conversations that House was hiding something? No.<p>

Or maybe yes.

_Back in five days. Don't worry. _

House had been fine over the past week or so since he'd left the hospital. In fact, he was still giving consults whenever the team rang him up. He'd even cooked a few meals here and there.

"Maybe he's – "

"No. He didn't even mention going away." Cuddy spun on her heels as she tapped furiously on her phone, presumably trying to reach House. "He hid this from us. He didn't want us to know."

Okay. Wilson was starting to panic for real now, but he knew the last thing Cuddy needed was for him to start listing worst-case scenarios.

"Maybe he – "

"What if he doesn't come back?"

"No," Wilson protested weakly, "he -"

"What if he does something stupid? Oh god, what if he's going to – "

Wilson's eyes widened in alarm as he followed Cuddy's train of thought. "No! He – House wouldn't do that…"

God, he couldn't even verbalize it. House wouldn't do that, would he?

"He wouldn't…" He meant to sound assertive, but it sounded more like a half-assed attempt to convince himself. And it was unconvincing. "House wouldn't do that. He wouldn't."

Cuddy's panic turned to anger. "I am going to _kill _that selfish ass when he comes back," Cuddy raved. "He's _so_ screwed. He _knows _he shouldn't be gallivanting about! It's like… _eurgh!_" She flopped down in the armchair, slightly breathless as all the anger disappeared abruptly, leaving her deflated and defeated. "_If _he comes back."

The shrill ringing of the phone interrupted their thoughts. Wilson snatched the phone up before Cuddy could even move.

"House?"

"_Uh, no. We're looking for him, actually – " _

The phone was snatched out of Wilson's hands by a frantic Cuddy. "House? I swear to God, you are – "

"_Uh, it's Chase. We're looking for him. Our patient just had – " _

Cuddy deflated visibly as soon as she heard Chase's voice. Wilson took the phone out of her limp hand, and placed it at his ear. Chase was still talking, oblivious.

"… _rashes, fever and aphasia. LP and MRI were all normal. Foreman is in the OR with Masters and they – " _

Wilson cut Chase off. "House isn't here."

As he explained to Chase the situation, he could see Cuddy slump even further in her seat. She was rubbing her temples, obviously trying to ward off an impending headache.

As he put down the phone, she said in a low voice, "What if he really doesn't come back?"

"He will," Wilson raised his voice, as though doing so would make it all the more true. "He'll come back."

* * *

><p>Wilson heard the sound of the door opening; he walked out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron.<p>

And there House stood right in front of him.

"You asshole!" The words flew out Wilson's mouth. "You goddamn son of a bitch!"

"Hello to you too."

The nonchalance angered Wilson. They'd been through hell for the past five days, and here he was sauntering in like nothing was wrong?

"Where the hell did you go? You were virtually off the map! We were worried – " Wilson stopped mid-rant as he watched House sink into the couch and begin rubbing at his thigh. Wherever he went, whatever he did, had taken a toll on him. With great restraint, Wilson stomped off into the kitchen.

By the time he came back out with water for House – which he did only after he calmed himself down enough to trust that he wouldn't be tempted to stab his stupid best friend with a knife – House was curled up on the couch, covered in a blanket, his face mashed into the cushions. It looked like he couldn't breathe in that position. But then again, Wilson had seen him do the seemingly impossible before. Wilson assumed he was sleeping.

It was weird, though. The couch was no longer comfortable enough for House – he usually headed straight to his room when he was really tired.

Cuddy answered on the first ring, as per the past five harrowing days.

"He's back."

"_Idiot. Goddamn idiot. Is he okay?" _

"He's exhausted…" Wilson caught sight of House's passport sticking out of the bag he'd slung over his shoulders. "He went out of the country."

"_I'm coming over." _

Wilson crouched down next to the couch and extracted House's passport from the bag. He flipped through it, trying to get a clue as to where the hell House was in the past five days. Flipping to the back, he found the most recent stamp.

Switzerland.

House went to Switzerland.

"I went to Switzerland."

Oh, House wasn't asleep then. But he still kept his face insistently mashed into the cushions, not looking at Wilson. The very fact that House was volunteering information should have been a warning sign, but Wilson didn't notice.

Instead, he demanded, "Why the hell did you go to Switzerland?"

House mumbled into the back of the couch. "To get Swiss cheese."

"I'm serious, House. Did you know how worried we were? For five whole days, we've been a neurotic mess! You shouldn't be alone for long periods of – "

"Wasn't alone."

"_What?" _

"Said, wasn't alone."

"Who went with you, then? No one from the team is missing, Cuddy and I are here. We were all worried to hell, in case you were wondering."

House only mumbled something unintelligible into the blanket he was now wrapping himself with.

Wilson didn't know what had come over House. House was supposed to ask him to leave him alone. Instead, House was letting him demand for answers. Wilson realized what this meant – this was House's way of expressing that he didn't want him to leave – he would much rather Wilson annoy the hell out of him than chase Wilson away. What the hell was going on?

Wilson hesitated before heading to the closet to grab another blanket. He casually shook it out and offered it to House, who snatched it over. House grabbed it and wrapped himself more tightly in his blanket cocoon, not looking at Wilson, who sat down carefully on the edge of the couch. He could feel the heels of House's feet digging into his side, but he could only see tufts of House's hair sticking out the blanket cocoon.

"House," he said softly. "Where did you go?"

Smothered sounds emanated from House, the blankets and couch dampening his words.

"House."

"Dignitas, okay? I went to Dignitas."

Wilson felt his heart speed up, and his mouth ran dry. Was this some kind of Houseian way of planning ahead? He sputtered. "You – _God,_ you went to Dignitas?"

The pile of blankets shifted slightly as House nodded the affirmative.

"Oh god." No wonder House was acting this way. "House… You should have told me… My patients have asked me about it before… I would - You didn't have to fly all the way there to – "

House turned away slightly from the back of the couch to peer at Wilson. "Didn't go there for me, you moopsie."

Wilson felt his pulse rate slow down somewhat. "Please tell me why you went there," he said more calmly than he felt. "Before I keel over."

House turned back into the couch. His voice was muffled, but Wilson had no problem interpreting his words. After all, he'd listened to House in all kinds of states – drunk, stoned, out of his mind with pain…

"Went with Thirteen."

Wilson felt his eyes nearly bug out of their sockets. "Thirteen?"

"Promised her."

Wilson had a sinking feeling about this. He knew where this was going. "You promised…?"

"Said I would kill her."

"Oh, House…"

"I didn't forget, y'know? But then I disappeared after driving my car into Cuddy's house, and she thought I wasn't gonna fulfill the promise so she registered with them." House was almost babbling into his cocoon, as though he couldn't stop himself. "Then I found her and she was with her girlfriend and I told her I didn't forget and she told me she was ready and I told her I couldn't to for her either – "

"Okay." Wilson felt his stomach turn to ice. He'd never seen House like that before. It was like House was splintering into a million pieces, like a beam that had born far too much weight, and he couldn't stop. "Okay, House. Stop, It's okay."

Wilson knew House had always had a special connection with Thirteen. They were kindred souls. Both intensely private and far too similar in their tendencies to push people away and self-destruct. And now, this was hitting far too close to home for comfort.

"She thought I wasn't gonna fulfill the promise y'know. I said I would do it but then she said she doesn't want me to go to jail because – "

"House, stop. It's okay."

"She was still lucid but she was in a wheelchair and she'd developed seizures and her girlfriend was doing almost everything," House shuddered, the cocoon he was in trembling visibly as the words just kept falling over each other in their eagerness to escape. "And she had difficulty swallowing so she was eating soft foods and she said even if I didn't turn up they would have gone to Dignitas next month anyway – And the girlfriend was taking it so well it was like she was all prepared and resigned but I could see she was upset and was close to falling freaking apart like… And Thirteen knew it too because she told me and – "

"House." Wilson flapped his hands uselessly in the air, not knowing what to do. "Enough. It's okay. _Stop._ Please, just stop."

And House stopped. Wilson watched in semi-awe as House simply stilled himself.

"Shit." Maybe he shouldn't have asked House to stop after all.

Wilson wondered just how often House lost control like that, and how much restraint he exercised everyday. Obviously, the only time Wilson had really seen House lose control was when he drove into Cuddy's house. And maybe that horrid outburst after he'd found out half his thigh muscle was missing. But that was it. But even then, it was anger and resentment and bitterness. Not like this. House never fell apart, not like this.

Wilson didn't even know his friend was capable of this. It was like House restrained himself so much because he knew he couldn't stop it if he fell apart like this. Instead, he buried it deep inside him and never accessed it.

But _this_. This was different.

Wilson hesitated; he laid his hand on where he estimated House's shoulder to be. House only shirked away and pressed himself further into the couch. Wilson caught a brief glimpse of House's face – no tears despite the obvious fact that House was, by his standards, splintering into a million shattered pieces.

House was silent as he breathed heavily, as though he was trying to summon up some courage and psyching himself. He shifted as he raised his head so very slightly towards Wilson. Wilson couldn't actually see his eyes, though.

"… will… me" It came out too fast and mumbled for Wilson to make out distinct words.

"What?" Wilson shifted towards House, straining his ears. "Say that again, House." It came out more like a plea than a request.

House took in a shuddering breath and seemed to pull himself together somewhat by switching gears. "You've seen this before, right?"

That wasn't what he said earlier, but Wilson decided to let it go. He knew what House was referring to. Wilson had seen dozens, maybe even hundreds of his patients do this – it was when it really hit them that there was no other road to travel down, and nothing else to do except wait. And House was like any of them, his own realization prompted by his trip with Thirteen.

"Yeah," Wilson looked up at the ceiling as he squeezed House's shoulder. "Yeah I've seen this."

"Stupid."

"It's not stupid. It's normal."

House snuffled into his blankets, but he didn't shake Wilson's hand off. Wilson suddenly realized one thing – House hadn't retreated to his room once he came back because he had _wanted_ to talk to Wilson. A tenuous silence ensued, Wilson not knowing what to do. He just sat there.

"Wilson."

"Yeah."

"_Willyoudoitforme_."

It was like all the breath rushed out of Wilson; he forgot how to breathe.

"Wh-what," Wilson could feel himself wheezing. He took in a deep breath and willed his voice to work without cracking. "Why – It's still too soon to – " Actually, it wasn't. He always encouraged his patients to talk it out with their family, and to plan for when the end was near. "H-House… God, I can't – _Why?_"

" 'm not worth it."

That wasn't the answer Wilson was expecting. But somehow, it was worse. Before he could say a thing, House started talking again.

"Dontwannabeinpain. You said last time that I want to be in pain, I want to be miserable. But Idontwannabeinpain."

"House…" Wilson's voice cracked, and it came out reedy and all clogged up with denial. He vaguely recalled a conversation he had with House where House had branded those who tried to commit suicide as wimps. _Wimps_, he'd said. _Life sucks. Suck it up. _House thought suicide was a cowardly act. So why was he saying this now?

Wilson couldn't suppress his selfishness and denial. "You _said_. You said it's cowardly and selfish and wimpy. Don't be a coward."

The moment he said it, he regretted it.

"Am so."

Wilson was just about to apologize when something clicked in his mind.

"You're lying."

House stiffened.

"You're lying, House. Tell me the truth. I at least deserve to know the real reason you want this." The lightbulb went off in Wilson's head.

'_m not worth it._

"You… Oh god, House..." Wilson's heart was filled with unspeakable sadness for his friend and what he thought of himself. "You don't think you're worth it. You saw how Thirteen's girlfriend was… you don't want us to – you don't think you're worth it."

"She cried. She hid in the toilet and cried almost every night."

Wilson tried to summon up all he'd learnt as an oncologist, but found that he didn't know what to say when it was his best friend he was talking to. "House…"

"I did research. I found this place – "

"_No_!" Wilson nearly shouted. "For Christ's sake, House!"

For someone who seemed so arrogant and as full of himself, House had zero self-worth. Especially after he'd gone to jail. It was like he thought he was only good for medicine and solving puzzles, and thought nothing of himself at all.

"You can't say this, House. You're not worthless. You're not bad."

House rubbed his forehead against the cushions, his hands trapped by the tight cocoon of blankets. "Wilson…"

"I _will_ do it, you know," Wilson said firmly. "I really will do it for you if that's what you want. I'll do it if you don't want to suffer, or be in pain. But I won't do is fucking kill you just because you think you don't deserve to live simply because you don't think you should impose on us because you're not worth it. Because that is the worst fucking reason Gregory House can give me for this."

House was silent; Wilson took it as a good sign that he was getting through.

"You have to talk to Cuddy about this."

House's head snapped up. "No. No, Wilson, you can't tell her about this," he insisted almost frantically. "This is between you and me. You can't tell her, or I will leave. I really will leave."

Right on cue, the doorbell rang, and Wilson could hear Cuddy demanding for the door to be opened immediately so she could throttle House.

"I can't promise you, House."

"Then I can't either."

The pounding on the door intensified.

Wilson cast one last look at House – _we're not done with this_ – before heading to the door to open it before it got broken down.

Cuddy stormed into the living room and immediately rushed to House, who was trying to stand up.

"You bastard. You goddamn sonofabitch," Cuddy hammered House's chest with her fists as she yelled at him. "Do. You. Know. How. Worried. I. Was."

It was surreal watching House compartmentalize, shoving things down and away and bringing up the appropriate emotion or expressions for Cuddy. Wilson watched as all traces of whatever had transpired vanished instantly from House's expression. He understood with an unpleasant jolt that House wasn't willing to confide in Cuddy at all about this – whether he was trying to spare her the pain of the issue, or because he couldn't bring himself to be vulnerable to her again even though it was years since their first break-up, Wilson wasn't sure.

All he knew was that House wasn't a hundred percent honest with Cuddy, and was unwilling to show Cuddy that side of him. It was almost like he was afraid she would leave after realizing what a neurotic mess he could be, or that she would hurt him again. But Wilson couldn't be sure.

And for that, Wilson had to bear the burden alone. But, he realized, it was better having to bear the burden than to be blinded to all that plagued House.

House grasped Cuddy's shoulders. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

Cuddy deflated, and she rested her head on his chest. "You idiot," she mumbled into his t-shirt. "I thought you weren't coming back. You bastard."

House didn't say anything; he only lowered his head and rested his chin on Cuddy's head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. He cast a warning look at Wilson. It was fleeting, but Wilson saw it all the same.

"Tell me where you went," Cuddy said after they stood there like that for a long time.

"Switzerland."

"Why did you go to – "

"I'm tired, Cuddy..." House sagged against her suddenly, his words slurring. "G'nna fall."

Cuddy cast a panicked look at Wilson, who knew exactly why exactly House was so drained. Wilson immediately rushed over and slipped House's arm around his shoulder. Cuddy took the other side, and they helped House into the bedroom.

House was half-asleep by the time his head hit the pillow, but he still found it in him to mutter to Cuddy, "Ask Wilson. He'll tell you."

Wilson knew it was a test, and he had to pass it no matter what. So he found himself telling Cuddy about Thirteen, House's promise, their visit to Dignitas ,and nothing else.

But it was very clear to him that he had promised House nothing, yet.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Yes, an update! Sorry - don't hate me! Do at least leave a review, since I've updated this um, for the first time in 2 months. 3 fics in a week, I think it's a record for me. Happy Christmas in advance, guys :) _


	15. Chapter 15

Cuddy could count on one hand the number of people she had truly lost in her life.

There was her dad, who died in a car accident when she was twenty. She remembered walking around for weeks feeling like she wanted to burst into tears any moment.

There was Paul, a classmate from high school. They'd been in the same class for six years straight since grade school. He died in a robbery gone wrong at a convenience store. She remembered how everyone in school turned up in black one day, and how they had had a memorial service for him.

Then there was Francine, whom she met in med school, who collapsed after a triathlon.

Of course, there were the patients she'd met and formed an emotional attachment to, but who had eventually succumbed to illness. She could still remember their names. Then there was Kutner and Amber, whom she hadn't really known, but had grieved for anyway. And recently, Thirteen.

Then there were the people who didn't die, but she had lost all the same. Joy. Her husband of six days. Kristen, her best friend from high school whom she'd lost contact with.

She lost House when he drove his car into her house. Then for a little while, she lost Wilson, when he was disappointed and just so mad that things between her and House had blown up in such a spectacular way.

Now, she had finally found House again. They'd somehow made their way back to each other despite all that had happened.

But he was slipping away from her.

She could feel it with each day that passed. He was like water that was cupped in her hands. No matter how hard she tried to keep her hands pressed together, no matter how hard she tried to seal her fingers, the water would slowly seep, drip and flow away through the cracks.

She could see it every day. The more time he spent sitting down. The longer he took to get out of bed. The appetite slowly fading. The shorter sentences and increased breathlessness.

She was not prepared for it. They had spent years apart thanks to their mistakes, only to reunite under the worst possible circumstances. She needed more time.

So when she received the email from Nelson at Sloan-Kettering, she closed her eyes in relief. It had been a desperate move, one she did not dare pin her hopes on. But against all odds, she had succeeded.

* * *

><p>"No," Wilson immediately said. "No."<p>

"The trial has shown promising results – "

"For patients who are not as advanced as he is – "

"He's still within the threshold," Cuddy insisted. "He has to be, or Nelson wouldn't have agreed to help get him on."

Wilson grabbed the file and thumbed it. "_Barely_. And the side-effects of this drug – I've read about it, and it's an extremely rigorous course of treatment that not everyone is able to withstand."

Cuddy bit her lip. "It's worth a shot. It'll give him more time. Who knows? It may – "

Wilson shook his head slowly, recognizing what this for what it was. "Cuddy…" he covered her hand with his, and squeezed it. "Don't do this."

"Don't you want this too, Wilson? You do. I can tell."

"Of course I do. But you and I both know that it's not going to work."

"You don't know that!" Cuddy snapped, the desperation clear in her voice. "This may give him months, maybe years more."

"This is a drug trial, Cuddy. It doesn't guarantee anything."

"We have to take this chance."

Wilson ran his hands through his hair and sighed. "I've tried everything," he says quietly. "Radiation, chemo, the works. The tumor is unresectable, and it has metastasized to his liver. We caught it too late. _I_ caught it too late. It was already Stage IVA when he started treatment. What we can do is only palliative now."

Cuddy shrunk away from Wilson. "No," she whispered. "_No_. You want this too, Wilson." She could see it in him, really. He did want House to try this, and to give House more time. What she couldn't get was why he wasn't acting on it. "We both need more time."

Wilson was just about to reply when House somehow snuck up and snatched the file out of Wilson's hands. He collapsed on the couch next to Cuddy, exhaling loudly from the exertion as he lifted his legs onto the coffee table.

"House…" Wilson sputtered. "That's rude." He tried to make a grab for the file.

"Shush," House swatted Wilson's hand away. "Reading."

House's expression was unreadable as he flipped through the file. Cuddy could feel the anticipation pool in her gut. House was a fighter, right? He would want this.

"You hate Nelson," House finally said. He put down the file, and peered over his glasses at Cuddy. "He groped you at that conference in Ontario."

Cuddy gaped. "You weren't even _at_ the conference."

House shrugged, but his face remained inscrutable. "What did you do to get me in?"

"I… it took a few emails."

"You groveled."

Cuddy winced. "I was… liberal with my praise."

"You kissed his ass."

Cuddy sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

"I barely even qualify for this."

"You do. Nelson may be a perv, but he's a good doctor. He wouldn't let you in unless you qualified."

House looked at Wilson, who was determinedly looking at his feet. He could see that Wilson was as desperate as, if not, more desperate than, Cuddy.

"Please," Cuddy whispered as she leaned her head onto House's shoulder. "Please do this. You always fight."

Wilson finally made eye contact with House, only to hastily glance away. He tugged at his cuffs compulsively. He wanted House to do it too. It was better than just waiting around and doing nothing. They had to fight. But at the same time, as an oncologist, he knew it probably wouldn't work. And that it wouldn't be worth it. It was just too late.

"This really means that much to you," House said in an undertone, only for Cuddy's ears.

He didn't need to ask Wilson. He already knew what Wilson would say – _no, don't do this_, _it's not worth it_, when in actual fact, he wanted more than anything for House to do it. House knew after all that Wilson had trouble losing people. He just did a good job of hiding it.

And Cuddy… This was _Cuddy_.

But he didn't want this. It was going to be futile.

He wondered if this was what Andie had felt, the overwhelming need to just hang around to spare those around her sadness and heartbreak, and to help them feel better that they weren't doing nothing. Well, he finally understood now.

This wasn't just his life. This was Cuddy's life, and Wilson's life. He used only think only about himself, and about the consequences of his actions, and how they affected the people around him. But now, somehow, at this stage, he had begun thinking about how this would affect Wilson and Cuddy. He had no idea whether it was guilt, or love, or maybe even his subconscious prompting him to make amends for the shit they had gone through over the years.

House closed his eyes. He tucked his chin over Cuddy's head, and inhaled the scent of her shampoo. "Okay," he said. "Okay."

* * *

><p>"You said!" Rachel shrieked as she tugged her pink suitcase out of the wardrobe. It bounced off the ledge and left an ugly chip. "You said we could go to the Niagara Falls, then Darien Lake with Priscilla and Penny and Paulie!"<p>

Cuddy tried to soothe her daughter. "We can't go, Rachel – "

"I've been waiting for this trip for forever!" Rachel shouted. "Priscilla and Penny and I even planned what route we would take – we know what rides we want to go on!"

Cuddy was regretting ever agreeing to the trip. She'd forgotten all about it – it had been planned months in advance with Julia's kids. That had been before she had returned to Princeton. It would have been fine if Julia were free to bring the kids there. But she wasn't – she had told Cuddy two months ago that some important clients from China were coming, and she had to meet them personally. And Cuddy had agreed to bring the three girls there on her own.

She was so regretting that decision right now. There had just been so much on her mind recently.

"I'm sorry, honey. I forgot – "

Rachel positively howled, flinging herself on the bed on top of the outfits she had picked out for the trip. "You _promised_! You can't break your pinky promise!"

All Cuddy wanted to do was plaster herself to House's side and never leave him. She already had trouble coping with the fact that he insisted on not living with her and Rachel, instead staying with Wilson at the loft. Something about giving Rachel a normal life that didn't include a dying man in it. He was right, but that didn't mean she liked it.

"Rachel… I've explained this to you. Aunt Julia can't go, so it's just me bringing you three there. But House is sick, and we can't leave him behind, can we?"

"You promised!" Rachel insisted, her voice steadily increasing in decibels. "You said we could go!"

"My ears are being tortured," a voice from the living room yelled. House and Wilson had arrived for dinner then. "It's worse than Wilson's rendition of One!"

House's proclamation was followed by an irritated "House!" and a muffled "oomph!"

"No fighting in my house!" Cuddy yelled.

"He started it!" Wilson hollered. "Chicken stew and scalloped potatoes, by the way."

"He hit a crippled, cancer-ridden man with a baguette!" House retorted. "I'm pretty sure that trumps everything!"

"Sit down, you ass."

"You're standing in my way, idiot."

"House! Wilson!" Rachel yelled. "Mom is being unfair!"

Cuddy buried her face in her hands as Rachel bounded out of the room. It was great when House and Wilson came over for dinner on even weekdays. It was just some variation in what had become a mundane routine.

But today was not a good day at all.

She strode out of the room to find House reclined on the couch, hand already on the remote. Wilson was patting Rachel on the head.

"House," Rachel scrambled over to him and tugged on his trackpants. "Mom is being unfair! She's killing me."

"Literally or figuratively?" House flipped through the channels on TV.

"House!" Rachel sounded remarkably like both Wilson and Cuddy when she did that. "She promised to bring me to the Niagara Falls and then Darien Lake. We were supposed to go with Aunt Julia and Penny and Priscilla!"

"Aunt Julia? I agree with your mom. Wholeheartedly."

"Stop it!" Rachel screamed. "Mom is breaking her promise! That is wrong!" In her haste, she bumped into House's right leg. He managed to keep his face straight and stifle a groan, though he gripped the cushions on the couch till his knuckles were white.

Cuddy spotted this. "Rachel," she hissed, tugging her daughter away from House. "Stop this. I've told you – I'm sorry. No more tantrums – you're nine! Stop this right now or I won't let Gerry sleepover later."

The tears finally began to fall, fat droplets rolling down Rachel's splotchy red cheeks. "But you promised," she hiccupped. "You can't break a promise."

House quelled the desire to tell Rachel that her argument sucked, and that promises were meant to be broken _a la rules_ anyway. Instead, he said to Cuddy, "Why aren't you guys going anymore?"

Before Cuddy could steer the conversation away from rocky waters, Rachel blurted out, "Because you're sick and we can't leave you behind."

House recoiled. It took a moment before he raised an eyebrow at Cuddy.

Cuddy knew House did not like the idea of them accommodating him. By now, Wilson was listening and observing from the corner of his eye over at kitchen counter as well.

"I just… it's just not a good time now, House," Cuddy murmured. "We can go next time."

"You _promised_," House said pointedly, sounding remarkably like Rachel. He decided not to mention the fact that next time was equivalent to when he wasn't around anymore.

"I know."

"Then…?"

Rachel suddenly jumped up. "Let's bring House," she said brightly, obviously proud of her idea. "He can come with us. It'll be fun!" She turned to House. "It'll be fun, right? Darien Lake is going to be wicked – I've never been there before but Penny says the rides are awesome. Then we can go see the Falls, Mrs Slater says it's pretty and magnificent and that we should go on the Maids of The Mist boat ride!"

Shell-shocked, Cuddy could only find it in herself to mumble, "They're learning about the Natural Wonders of the World in school."

House said nothing.

"I think it's a good idea," Wilson appeared next to Cuddy. He handed a glass of juice to House before setting down onto the armchair. "We can take a short holiday."

"Don't think Rachel mentioned you – " House snarked.

"Wilson can come too," Rachel practically squealed, clapping her hands.

House winced. "Are you sure? Wilson is going to – "

"We can book our air tickets tonight." Wilson pointedly ignored House's jibe. "We don't have to be on the same flight – House and I can meet you at the hotel. It'll be good for us all. Yes, even you, House," Wilson poked House in the arm. "You're feeling relatively good at the moment, and you shouldn't coop yourself up at home."

In other words, _it's going to suck soon so you should do stuff like this now_.

It was a bit too _bucket list-ish_ for House. The Niagara Falls. Corny. What next, the Grand Canyon? But then he saw the brat bouncing on the balls of her feet, the most hopeful expression on her face – in sharp contrast to her red, blotchy cheeks – and then there was Cuddy, looking torn between agreeing to it and disagreeing and making Rachel stay back and sparking off WWIII , and then Wilson, looking hopeful with his own puppy dog face.

"It better be a good hotel," he grumbled, "with good beds and soft sheets and _cable_."

* * *

><p>In the end, since it was Easter weekend, and it was a decision made three days before the actual seat, they were unable to get hold of plane tickets. To prevent Rachel from an apoplectic fit, and to indulge Wilson, it was decided that Wilson and House would drive up a day earlier, staying over at a bed &amp; breakfast en-route for the night, with taking their time with plenty of rest breaks in between. In a way, it was better than sitting in a cramped plane seat. At least House and Wilson would get to have some fun.<p>

Wilson hummed happily as he stuffed things into the car. He was in an extraordinarily good mood. It was the first trip he was taking with House in a long, long time. "We're going on a road trip," he sang under his breath occasionally. "Oh yeah."

"Jesus," House groaned. "I am stuck in an enclosed space with that dweeb for the next eight hours." He sank into the front passenger seat, which had been adjusted as far back as possible, legs hanging out the side of the Volvo.

Cuddy suppressed a smile as she wrapped the scarf around House's neck. "Be nice," she admonished. "He's excited."

"Pure torture."

"Oh, come on. You've been looking forward to this too."

"Have not."

"Don't pretend you don't enjoy road trips with Wilson." Cuddy reached over House to fuss over the temperature in the car, giving House a prime view of her derriere. "No girls, no fuss, just you two studs."

"Me, stud, yes. Wilson, stud, I'm not so sure." House changed his mind when Cuddy cocked an eyebrow at him, scrunching his face up. "Okay, fine. Married thrice and women throw themselves at him. I forgot. They like his sensitive nature."

Cuddy's throaty laugh brought a small smile to House's lips. He allowed her to fuss at his coat and scarf, and tuck the blanket in around him. "You sure you're up for this?"

House took a moment to think. He was tired, there was a dull throb in his thigh and if he moved abruptly, his abdomen hurt.

A good day, then.

"Yeah," he replied, lifting his legs into the car. "Yeah, I'm up for this."

"You've got everything you need? Have you taken your anti-nausea meds?"

"Yep."

"You sure you don't want to sit in the back? You'll have more space."

And feel more like an invalid. Not that the wheelchair Wilson was trying to secretly sneak in the back without him noticing was helping anyway. "I'm fine here."

"You've got everything, right? Are you warm enough?" Cuddy fretted. She wasn't even this uptight with Rachel. "I told Wilson to bring an extra blanket, just in case. The bottles of water are here, and I packed – "

House silenced her with a finger on her lips. "I'm fine, _Mom_."

Cuddy pursed her lips, and then sighed. She pulled the flat cap down firmly on House's head, ignoring the face he made at her. She leaned in, and pressed her lips to his. "I'll see you tomorrow."

To Wilson, who had just settled into the driver's seat, she warned, "Drive safe."

"Oh please," House moaned. "Wilson's style of driving is _nansy-pansy_."

Wilson rolled his eyes and started the car. "We'll see you tomorrow, Cuddy." He exchanged glances with her, both understanding one another instantly. "I'll try not to wring his neck."

"That's if you even dare to take a hand off the steering wheel. Now are we leaving or what?"

Cuddy smiled indulgently, suppressing the twinge of worry that still nibbled at her gut. "Have a good time, boys. Try not to get in too much trouble."

With one last kiss on House's temple – and on his part, a grope of her ass – Cuddy shut the door.

* * *

><p>"House?"<p>

"Mm."

Wilson glanced sideways at House. He looked drowsy, thanks to the meds he had taken an hour into the ride. "Why did you agree to undergo Nelson's treatment?"

House was quiet for a long while. "I don't know."

"You must have a reason for it," Wilson said. He couldn't decide if House saying _I dunno_ was a huge breakthrough or a terrifying notion. "You always do."

"I don't know."

"You do know that it's up to you – you can say no to Cuddy, you know."

"She just wants more time," House stared out his window, recalling the conversation they had that night in bed. "And I promised her I would try my best." He turned to Wilson. "You want me to do it too. I can tell."

There probably was no use denying what had probably been written all over his face, but still Wilson tried. "I want what's best for you."

"You just want more time too. Like everybody else would."

"It's selfish."

"You? Or Cuddy?"

"Both of us."

House snorted half-heartedly. "We're all selfish people."

"That doesn't mean it's right."

"Doesn't make it wrong either." House turned his head to look at Wilson. He blinked lazily, a small ironic smile at his lips. "Makes it acceptable, though."

Wilson gripped the steering wheel harder. "This is supposed to be about what you need. Not what we want."

"They are not mutually exclusive," House's eyes fell close, the pull of the drugs too strong. "Sometimes. So there."

With one hand on the wheel, Wilson reached over to tug the blanket higher to cover House better. He wasn't sure he wanted House to elaborate, but he asked anyway. "What you need trumps what we want. What do you need?"

There was a pause; the only sounds were that of the heater and their steady breathing. Then,

"Don't leave," House said, sounding oddly, panicked. "You and Cuddy… don't leave."

Wilson sucked in a deep breath. He thought of Cuddy running into Lucas' arms after House's hallucinations; leaving Princeton when it got too hard to bear with the consequences of House's actions; leaving again after she said goodbye to House. He thought of himself leaving after Amber, unable to face House, unable to take losing yet another person in his life. All necessary, considering the situation at that time – it was sometimes just impossible to keep up with House and all that he threw your way.

But it always hurt being the one left behind, even if it was a consequence of your actions that you had to bear. Even if you were the one to drive everyone away. It still hurt, and that was that.

"I won't leave," he says. He couldn't keep the uncertainty out of his voice, because it was really too damn hard, and he hated it. "Cuddy won't too."

"You suck at dealing with this," House muttered. "You can't take losing people."

Wilson chose to deflect this time. "Sleep, House." He kept his eyes fixed resolutely on the road ahead, ignoring the lump in is throat. "I'll wake you when we stop for lunch."

House opened his eyes and looked at his best friend for a while. Then as though saying _see, I told you so_, he smiled a sad smile and closed his eyes.

* * *

><p>They stop for lunch at a diner. It was dingy and dimly lit, with leather seats that had scuffs on them, mugs and plates that were just a little chipped and wooden tables that had scratches and marks on them. In other words, it was perfect.<p>

They tucked into their lunches – burger and fries for Wilson, and a relatively lighter French toast (and some of Wilson's fries) for House. At least, it _was_ light, until House drenched it in maple syrup. The coffee was thick and strong, the kind that would fry your nerves if you drank more than one mug. House was allowed one – only one – bottle of beer. If Wilson ignored the crutches propped up against the seats and imagined that House was tired and slightly cranky from a long-drawn case, then it was almost like nothing was wrong.

Three-quarters of the way into the meal, Wilson realized that House was distracted. He followed House's gaze, and it landed upon a buxomy lady dressed in a slinky orange dress that had cut-outs on the sides and ended mid-thigh. In other words, a gorgeous female specimen of the human race.

Wilson was just about to speak when suddenly, a shadow loomed over their booth. Wilson looked up to see a hulk of a man. He was in a leather jacket that was practically splitting at the seams.

"Get up," the man growled, taking off his aviators. "Stand up."

Wilson reached out to stop House, but of course, House stood up. Wilson hurriedly scrambled out of the booth as well. He barely reached the man's shoulders.

House leaned heavily on the back of the booth seat, an oddly intense look of concentration on his face. The Hulk Man obviously did not like it. It was a light shove, really, even Wilson had to admit. But House fell anyway.

Hulk Man looked a little surprised that his light shove resulted in House falling, but the anger in him won out. "That's for ogling at my woman, bastard," he spat.

Wilson cursed under his breath as he crouched on the floor next to House. "Shit," he muttered, not even daring to look at the humongous man looming over them. "Are you okay?" To Hulk Man, he said, "He wasn't ogling at your woman."

It came out unconvincing, and Hulk man sure could tell. "Apologise," he took a step closer towards House and Wilson, the threatening tone of voice unmistakeable. "Now."

By now, said buxomy woman had noticed her man in some sort of altercation. She began making her way across the diner.

House had a look of intense concentration on his face, eyes still fixed on that woman. Wilson immediately thought they were in deep shit. There were only two ways in which this would go down, judging from the expression on House's face: 1) House was going to shoot his mouth off and hurl an insult to this Hulk Man or 2) House was going to shoot his mouth off and hurl an insult to this Hulk Man. There was no way out – the third option, the unprobably one, was that House was having one of his famed epiphany moments.

But there was nothing to have an epiphany about here.

Wilson wanted nothing more than a hole to open up in the ground and swallow both him and House up. This was not going to end well at all.

"I," House finally said, still staring at the woman. Jesus. Wilson tried not to moan in panic and despair. "am not going to apologise – "

Wilson was pretty sure he let out a unglamorous squawk when Hulk Man lunged towards House. He dove in front of House, placing himself between House and the man whom he was sure was going to beat him up to a pulp.

"Stop!" he shouted, flinging his arms out. "He's got cancer!"

It came out much louder than he expected. The whole diner fell into silence as Wilson's voice pretty much reverberated around the diner. He heard a, "For God's sake, Wilson," somewhere behind him. He ignored it. What had to be done, had to be done.

"He's got cancer," Wilson said weakly, adrenaline still pulsing through his veins. His heart was getting too old for this. "You can't beat people with cancer up."

Hulk Man stopped in his tracks. He narrowed his eyes. "You're lying." He moved as though to remove Wilson from shielding House, but Wilson stood his ground, waving his arms.

"I'm not lying," Wilson narrowed his eyes. "I'm his doctor."

"Who obviously thinks he's some knight in shining armor," House muttered unhappily somewhere behind him.

By now, the cook was striding over, waving his spatula menacingly in the air. But it was Buxomy Woman who arrived first. She stepped coolly in front of her boyfriend, and placed a restraining hand on his chest. "What are you doing, Mike?"

Hulk Man sputtered, "He was ogling at you! And he refused to apologise!"

"This man," she turned to look at Wilson, gesturing for his name. "Dr – "

"Dr Wilson," Wilson offered hurriedly.

"Dr Wilson says this man has cancer, and you want to beat him up?" Buxomy Woman sighed. "Mike…"

"He's lying – this asshole was ogling at you!"

"I was not – " House argued back heatedly. "I was looking at that rash she has on her side!"

Immediately, everyone's heads swiveled to peer at Buxomy Woman's side. Or, whatever they could see of it, from the cut-outs in the side of her dress.

There was only a small patch visible, actually. It seemed more like a mess of tangled red string, only on skin.

"It itches, and there's more on the soles of your feet," House told the Buxomy Woman. "Am I right?"

Her eyes widened. "How did you know?"

"You've spent time on a beach."

Buxomy Woman and the Hulk Mike looked at each other slowly. "Yeah," Buxomy Woman nodded. "We literally just touched down from Phuket, Thailand – our honeymoon. I thought it was just a heat rash."

House rolled his eyes, making clear his opinion of her self-diagnosis. "Congratulations, you are officially a host for _cutaneous larva migrans_. Hookworms. Go see a real doctor."

The stunned silence that greeted House's proclamation was kind of amusing. So it had been a look of epiphany after all.

"I have worms under my skin?" Buxomy Woman looked torn between hurling her lunch and fascination at House's diagnosis. "Seriously?"

Wilson took it upon himself to inspect her side – hands off, thanks to menacing Hulk Mike – and confirmed it. "Yeah, it probably is. Happens when people walk barefoot or lie on the beach. Your doctor will prescribe you some anthelmintics."

"So," House leaned back against the booth, suddenly looking winded. Yet the smug look on his face was very much still there. "I was not _ogling_ at your woman. I have a hot mama of my own, thank you very much."

Hulk Mike seemed to deflate slightly. But he still asked, "How do we know you're not lying?"

Wilson cut in. "He's right, trust me. We're both doctors, and he specializes in infectious and rare diseases. We're from Princeton Plainsboro."

Hulk Mike deflated for real as his wife shot him a reprimanding look. She turned to look at House. "Thank you, Dr…"

"House," Wilson supplied. House was now more occupied with his PSP – when had he even taken it out? – than in looking everyone in the eye.

"Thank you, Dr House." Buxomy Woman yanked on the arm of her husband. "Mike has something to say as well."

"But – "

"Mike has something to say," Buxomy Woman insisted. "Or he's going to go to bed a sad, sad man."

Hulk Mike suddenly seemed more like Hen-Pecked Sulk Mike. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I shouldn't have pushed you."

"Apology accepted," Wilson said tersely, while House just rolled his eyes.

"Do you really have cancer?" Buxomy Woman asked softly. The pity was already creeping into her voice, and that was not good.

"Here we go," House muttered, rolling his eyes. He raised his voice and addressed the greater audience that was the diner staff and customers. "Yes, I have cancer. Everybody dies. But, thank you for the useless sympathy and well-wishes and platitudes that are about to spew out of your mouths – they don't actually make me better though – "

"Oooooooookay," Wilson clapped his hand over House's mouth, stopping him mid-sentence. "Go see a doctor, complete the course of meds, and you'll be fine," he nodded at Buxomy Woman, "And everyone, please do resume your lunch on this pleasant day."

Everyone reluctantly turned their gazes away – Wilson could almost feel the sympathy bleeding out of them – and with a last "thank you" from Hulk Mike and Buxomy Woman, who looked like she really was going to hurl – the fact that she had worms under her skin must have finally sunk in – they were finally no longer in the spotlight.

"Do you really have to make us the center of attention wherever we go?" he asked lightly as he got to his knees. He winced, painfully aware of the grout on the floor that was no doubt now on his hands and knees. "I blush easily."

"Shut up," House grumbled. He didn't make to stand up.

"Hurt anything?" Wilson asked lightly.

"No," was the clipped reply.

"Right," Wilson communicated his disbelief well enough. "Up you go then."

House sat there, glowering at Wilson. Wilson sighed, and then, acting put out upon with just the right touch of exasperation, he reached down and put House's right arm over his shoulder, helping him up. House let out a barely suppressed hiss of pain.

They were both painfully aware of everyone staring surreptitiously at them.

They ended up making a hasty exit from the diner, not liking the attention everyone paid to them with their – or rather, House's – every move. House migrated to the backseat this time, moving significantly slower and more carefully. Wilson tried not to hover anxiously, but he retrieved the extra blanket and cushions he had brought, turning up the heat. Surreptitiously, he retrieved more meds and placed them in the glove compartment for easy reach. Just in case.

They were five minutes into the second leg of their journey when House said suddenly, annoyed, "I can't believe you played the crippled cancer patient card."

Wilson couldn't help it – he started giggling. He had to pull over on the side of the road as he chortled. He couldn't control it, and it soon became outright pels of laughter. House, initially annoyed, couldn't prevent the smile from creeping onto his face.

"Did you see," Wilson gasped, tears starting to leak out of his eyes, "how his face morphed when I yelled _he has cancer_? And god, just back from their honeymoon and she's already got him under her thumb. And the way she looked at you after you diagnosed her… I couldn't decide if she was going to puke all over our shoes, or worship you as her _hero_."

They laughed, and laughed, and laughed until they were both doubled over, gasping for air and red in the face.

* * *

><p>"Cuddy's going to kill me," Wilson said forlornly as he plonked himself down on the bed. "She is going to rip me apart and sell my innards and use my skin to make leather bags."<p>

House snorted. "A little melodramatic, even for you."

Wilson gently palpated the bruise on House's hip. It was the size of his hand, and a half. "I'm so dead," he muttered dejectedly. Nothing was broken, but still. "So, so, so dead."

"At least nothing's broken."

"It's _hideous_," Wilson moaned. "It's huge, hideous, and it obviously hurts. I was supposed to get you there _safely_."

"It's just a bruise, Wilson. It isn't that - " House lifted his head from the pillow and peered over his shoulder. "Oh… wow. Okay. Yeah, cancer pain meds are good stuff."

Wilson carefully began applying the homeopathic cream to the bruise. The inventory of medical supplies he has at home had rapidly expanded over the past few months to include even homeopathic remedies. He had bought whatever he thought would be able to help House. Needless to say, he had packed everything for the trip.

House tensed, fisting the sheets. "Sorry," Wilson mumbled.

"Not your fault, idiot. Stop apologizing."

When they were done, Wilson passed House his meds and water, and then helped slip the memory foam pillow under his right knee.

He flopped onto his own bed, which was just three feet apart from House's. He suddenly felt exhausted. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling.

House yawned. "Wilson?"

"Yeah."

"T'was a good day, wasn't it?"

Wilson blinked. His back was aching from hours of driving, and his eyes felt like they were going to pop out any moment. Not to mention that horrible driver who had nearly run them into the fence.

But then there was blasting music in the car, laughing at stupid jokes, House dropping off to sleep in the middle of a conversation, prompting Wilson to stop by the road and take a picture of the extremely unglamorous open-mouthed look for blackmailing purposes, good food, laughter, snarks, barbs, and the fact that they were together on a road trip, momentarily leaving behind things that were just exhausting and soul-sucking.

"I even diagnosed someone," House mused. "And we didn't get into any accidents, or get stopped by the cops."

"Yeah," Wilson turned to smile at House. "Good day indeed."

"I had fun."

"Me too."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Okay. Okay I am so so so sorry. Real life has just been so fast-paced and horrid. I do hope the muse will let me update more frequently. Anyway I hope it's evident that the House here is different from who we're getting in S8. The finale arc with Wilson is killing me, but it did kickstart this story again, I guess. So do leave a review, since I've finally managed to update for the first time in... five months. Thanks for reading, if you're still here. _


	16. Chapter 16

It was an uncomfortable night's sleep. The beds were soft, which Wilson didn't mind. But not House, who had come to appreciate – almost need – firm beds for the support they provided for his leg and lower back. Despite instructions that breakfast was served till 10am only, they only managed to make it down at 10.30am, thanks to the extended stint House had required in the hot bath.

The stoutly B&B owner, Mrs Booth, looked ready to kill them when they finally made it down. But she took one look at House, pursed her lips, and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Do I look that bad," House mumbled as he sank into the armchair in the corner of the dining room, "because I feel positively chirpy."

Wilson grabbed the newspaper and started flipping through it. "You look lovely."

Mrs Booth emerged out of the kitchen with her hands full of food. "You look like shit," she stated matter-of-factly. She and House had already gotten off to an interesting start the prior evening, and it was a wonder that she hadn't kicked them out. "Now come eat at the table like the adult you're supposed to be."

House rolled his eyes and muttered grumpily under his breath as he made his way to the dining table. He shot a glare at Wilson, who was smiling behind his mug of coffee.

As much as House would have liked to complain about the food, it was excellent. And it was an absolute bummer for House to not have anything else to criticize. Even the juice was freshly squeezed and tart and lovely.

They set off on the second leg of their journey an hour after brunch. It was an additional two and a half hours' drive, during which House managed to: wheedle out of Wilson another bottle of beer ("This is not a road trip without beer," he had insisted), mock Wilson incessantly for stopping the car and helping an elderly lady cross the road, only to get clocked over the head with her umbrella, having been misunderstood as a robber, and have an episode of breakthrough pain, which was marked by him throwing up his brunch, beer and the Doritos, falling out of the car just in time to upchuck everything.

So when they drove up to the hotel, Wilson slumped over his seat and rested his head on the steering wheel. Cuddy knocked on his window, and he lowered it without raising his head.

"Had a good time then?"

Wilson groaned. "You have no idea."

He couldn't keep the smile off his face. Yeah, he had fun. It had been harrowing, stressful and way too eventful, but god, he loved it. He loved every single minute of it.

Cuddy's gaze fell upon House in the backseat. "Had to give him a top-up of pain meds and muscle relaxants," Wilson supplied quietly as he finally raised his head. House was still on a relatively low-dose of pain meds despite Wilson having suggested otherwise. He knew House was afraid of building up a tolerance too soon. "He'll need a few hours to sleep it off."

Cuddy tried to hide her visible disappointment. They'd been hoping they would get through it without any major episodes. House was dozing and practically boneless, so it was with much awkward maneuvering that they got him into the hotel room, where he curled up and promptly went back to sleep.

"You look like you need some rest yourself," Cuddy laughed as she watched Wilson collapse face-down onto his own bed next to House's, face buried in his pillow. The bed was firm, thank goodness. "I'll head over to Darien Lake with the kids first. We got two-day passes, so we'll meet you there later?"

Wilson nodded into his pillow. Cuddy patted him on the back, grinning. She removed House's coat and track shoes, leaving him in his long-sleeved tee and track pants, and pressed a kiss to House's forehead.

House stirred. "Hi," he mumbled.

"Hi."

"Don't make Wilson into a bag," House raised an a hand and tried to gesture at Wilson. His arm flopped down onto the bed after his uncoordinated effort. "He's scared of ya."

"Am not," Wilson mumbled right back.

Cuddy glared balefully at the monster of a bruise on House's hip, but she couldn't find it in herself to be mad at Wilson. She drew the trackpants up gently past the sensitive bruise. "I left you guys alone for 40 hours, and this is what you come back with?"

To her surprise, both House and Wilson giggled. "I dia-nosed someone," House smiled lazily at her. Totally doped up on the meds still, she thought. It was kind of endearing, how giggly he was. "Hookworms. Her husband wanted ta punch me cuz I was staring but I told him I have a hot momma of my own."

Cuddy blushed as House leered at her. "Um. Thank you."

"You are very hot, Cuddy. I like it. I like you."

"Wilson's in the room," she warned. "Now go back to sleep before you embarrass yourself further and I decide to film this."

* * *

><p>"Crutches."<p>

"Wheelchair."

"Crutches."

"Wheelchair."

"_I'm_ the one using it. _I_ get to decide."

"It's crowded and there's going to be a lot of walking and, thus _the wheelchair," _The exasperation was clear in Wilson's voice. He gestured to the wheelchair. "Now stop pandering to your pride and Use. Your. Brain."

"Wilsooooooooooon."

"I hate it when you whine. It's not a good look, that face you're making."

"I know you want me to take the wheelchair so you don't have to carry that backpack around," House narrowed his eyes and waved his finger accusingly. "You lazy bastard, you." But the token protest was given up, and he sank down in the wheelchair. A day's worth of ripening had made the bruise even worse, and he wasn't keen on barging his way through maddening crowds, risking someone elbowing him on his bruised hip.

And anyway, people gave way to the wheelchair-bound.

That was good enough a reason.

So that was how they ended up at the carousel, munching on warm popcorn, waiting for Rachel and the 3Ps to finish their ride. Cuddy was sitting demurely on a brown horse, keeping an eye on the four kids.

"House!" Rachel yelled as she scrambled out of the gate. "Wilson! You're here!" She unceremoniously stuck a hand into his bag of popcorn and grabbed a handful. "You're late." She didn't give either House or Wilson a chance to reply before she breathlessly babbled on, mouth half-full of popcorn. "We've gone on six rides and we're going to take the rollercoaster next and then we're gonna go on the Vertigo and we're so lucky because I actually meet the height requirement and we can go now cos you're finally here and we can all go together because Paulie says they're the best rides!"

The 3Ps – Paulie, Priscilla and Penny – wow, how cheesy was it that all three kids had names that started with P – hung behind shyly, having never met Wilson and House before. House noted that the three of them had Julia's unfortunately-shaped mouth. He felt no particular need to actually engage them, and so decided to ignore them.

Cuddy looked a little green around the gills at the sight of the monstrosity of a ride that loomed above them. Wilson was pointedly ignoring it, making it clear the "_outta sight, outta mind and thus outta my realm of responsibility_" philosophy he was evidently going to abide by for all the thrill rides.

"We need an adult to come with us," Rachel announced. She surveyed the three adults critically. "House, you come with us."

House smirked. Evidently, Rachel did not think much of her mom and Uncle Wilson's ability to handle the rides. And she was right.

He would have loved to on the ride – it was right up his alley with monster trucks. But the thing was, he hadn't been on such rides for over fifteen years. His leg did not enjoy going against gravity or having his body flung about in all directions.

"I don't think House can go, Rach," Cuddy murmured, craning her neck and visibly swallowing as she watched people scream their heads off as they sped down the coaster. "That's why he looks so smug."

"I love thrill rides," House insisted. "I just… can't go on them anymore," he finished quietly. "Sorry, kiddo." Then he perked up, an idea popping into his mind. "But _Wilson_ can," he said smugly, waggling his eyebrows. "In fact, he would _love_ to go on it."

Rachel immediately turned her attentions to dear Uncle Wilson, who was trying his best to hide behind a pillar half his size. "Wilson! Let's go let's go let's go before the queue gets any longer!"

Wilson shot an evil look at House as he let himself be tugged towards the entrance of the ride. Cuddy and House tried not to laugh too hard.

"You'll have to go on the next one, Cuddy," House pointed out, sniggering. Wilson was currently trying to look extremely excited and engaged; instead, he looked more like he had a bowel obstruction. "Have to be fair."

"Oh let's just enjoy this moment." Cuddy sat down on the bench and threaded her fingers through House's. She rubbed his hands – the air was getting cooler. "Poor Wilson."

"Yay us."

Wilson emerged unsteadily from the ride, legs wobbly and swallowing compulsively. House chuckled as Wilson all but collapsed onto the bench, his hand up, signalling for _give me a minute_. The kids, on the other hand, raved about the ride. Deciding to take pity on his best friend, House held out his ginger ale.

"God," Wilson moaned, gulping down the ginger ale and then dropping his head back to lean it against the fence behind him. "I'm too old for this. Cuddy, you're up next. I'm not even related to these kids."

It was made worse when House decided to purchase the exorbitantly priced photo taken on the ride. Wilson was never going to live it down – he had a look of utmost terror on his face, eyes squeezed tight, eyebrows nearly reaching his hairline. The four kids next to him had gloriously grins on their faces, evidently whooping, arms up in the air.

"This," House whispered reverently, "is what dreams are made of." He waved the tackily framed photo mockingly in Wilson's face. "Don't think I don't know that you took that photo of me sleeping in the car yesterday. Eye for an eye, bro."

They made their way through the park, making stops for ice-cream, hotdogs and more cotton candy. The park was crowded, filled with families enjoying the Easter weekend. The weather was lovely, with a slightly chilly breeze that made the crowds relatively bearable. House grew grateful for the wheelchair, which parted crowds easily enough, though he wasn't a fan of the lingering second glances they gave him. Tea was fried chicken and stodgy pizza that was over-priced and steeped in puddles of oil.

By mid-afternoon, the sun had disappeared behind the clouds and the temperature had dropped, necessitating putting on the coats they had brought along.

At last, they came to the Vertigo. Cuddy reluctantly made her way to the snaking queue while Wilson watched her with a hawk's eye, leaving her no room to even _think_ about escaping. With Cuddy safely trapped in the queue, Wilson pushed House over to a quiet corner with a prime view of the ride. House had been steadily getting quieter as the afternoon wore on.

"Want to head back soon?" Wilson asked softly as he retrieved a scarf from the backpack slung across the back of the wheelchair. He looped it around House's neck casually over his black overcoat.

He felt, rather than saw, House's weary nod.

They watched as Cuddy staggered off the ride, positively green in the face. The kids, however, seemed perfectly alright, and in fact seemed to be clamoring for more.

"A-_ha_," Wilson crowed as Cuddy came to join them. She leaned on a pillar, breathing deeply. "Now you know how I felt."

"Shut up, Wilson," she gritted out. "That was way worse than your wimp of a roller-coaster."

At this point, the 3Ps made a re-appearance, having disappeared at some point between the ride's exit and where House and Wilson were seated. They were lugging someone along with them. "

Aunt Lisa," the middle one – Paulie? Priscilla? Penny? – yelled excitedly. "Look, Mom made it here!"

"Alright Pris, there's no need to drag me across, I can – oh Jesus. What the – " Julia Cuddy stopped in her tracks. "What the actual _fuck_?"

"Mom," the youngest one – same age as Rachel. Paulie? Penny? – interjected self-righteously. "That's a bad word."

"What the hell, Lisa? Is this who I think it is?" Julia Cuddy took a step closer, disbelief all over her face. It soon morphed into unbridled rage. "_House_? The same House who tried to kill us by _driving his car into your house_?" Then, she realised something. "So _this_ is why you moved back to Princeton. Not because Mom's getting on in age, but for _this_ insane, dangerous man? You're absolutely out of your mind!"

Cuddy took a step forward; her hands were up warily in the air. "Julia…"

Julia grabbed her kids and shoved them behind her, placing herself directly between House and her kids. "This man tried to _kill_ you. He's not safe. In fact, he's batshit insane! An arrogant, selfish asshole who was homicidal. Why the hell are you here with him now? Don't even bother trying to say that it was a coincidence… Because it sure as hell isn't!"

Wilson stepped in front of House, who was oddly silent, blocking him from the direct line of Julia's venomous fire. They were attracting stares from the crowd around them.

Julia, however, seemed oblivious to the attention she was attracting. She continued on in her extremely loud and grating voice, "Have you just conveniently forgotten all the times you'd wake up from your nightmares in the middle of the night? What about how Rachel could have been killed? Your house could have collapsed on us, killing us all! This man is rash, reckless and an absolute danger to everyone around him. He. Deserves. To. Rot. In. Hell!"

Cuddy said sharply, "Julia, you're making a fool of yourself!"

"A fool of myself? _A fool of myself_? You are the fool. You are the one who told me you were over him, Lisa," Julia ranted. "You told me that he was history, and that you had to keep Rachel safe from him. What – I can't believe you did this! And you brought my kids here? With him around? Jesus… What the hell is going on in that mind of yours, Lisa? I can't understand how the hell Mom would allow this – how could she let you do this – return to this goddamn shmuck?"

The four children were now looking rather panicky at the sight of their aunt and mother squaring off, starting to back away into the crowd. House reached out to pull Rachel towards him, afraid that she would get lost in the crowd. Julia spotted this, and before anyone could react, landed a slap square on House's face.

"Don't touch her!"

House recoiled immediately, backing his wheelchair into the bench. Julia seemed to come back to herself, taking a step back away from him, while Rachel promptly burst into tears at seeing her House get hit by Aunt Julia. By now, the people around them were unabashedly staring.

Wilson stepped closer to Julia. "Julia! You have to calm down – you can't just – "

The tone which Wilson used evidently did not sit well with Julia. "You're supposed to be Lisa's friend, you idiot! Why are you helping him – "

"That's enough, Julia!" Cuddy hissed, grabbing her sister's arm. "You're making a scene out of nothing!"

Julia at last seemed to calm down sufficiently to notice the attention she had attracted. Taking several deep breaths, clearly rattled, she hugged her kids to herself. "This is not _nothing_. This is anything but _nothing_," she said, a hysterical note in her voice. "Explain yourself, Lisa. Tell me why the hell I shouldn't admit you to a mental institution!"

The barb was evident, and Wilson suddenly felt a surge of anger in him. That was underhanded, way underhanded. "You – "

"Enough," Cuddy ground out. Rachel clung to her leg, sniffling. She lay her hand on Wilson's chest, and pushed gently, signaling for him to back off and attend to Rachel and House. "Julia, listen to me." She yanked on her sister's arm firmly when Julia tried to shrug her off. "_Listen to me_. House is ill, okay? He doesn't have much time left. I just want to give him a chance to be happy. No one deserves otherwise."

"If anyone deserves to die – "

Wilson felt as if he was going to have an aneurysm at that remark.

"_No_," Cuddy finally shouted, losing her cool. "You don't get to say that. You don't get to be the judge of that."

"Oh, I get it," Julia shot back. "He's dying. And then he's going to ruin your life all over again, because you're going to watch him die. Why are you doing this? He doesn't deserve this, and neither do you. You don't deserve to have to go back to him because of some guilt complex or pity or – _he shouldn't be a part of your life anymore_. He ruined his chance, and he should have to deal with the consequences!"

Cuddy closed her eyes and counted to ten. "That's enough, Julia. What I do is none of your business – "

"_I'm_ the one who has to pick up the pieces when – "

"_No_. That's enough. You came here, frightening the kids, ruining our day and making this huge commotion out of nothing-

"This is not _nothing_ – "

"_Julia_!" Cuddy snapped sharply. "Enough! We've made a big enough scene. What I do is none of your business. I'm sorry you had to find out this way, but I made my choice, I know it's the right one. Now you have to make a choice – we have one more day here, and we have yet to visit the Falls. You can take your kids home, or you can stay and make this trip worthwhile for them since they have been anticipating it for months."

In the silence that ensued, Cuddy and Wilson both glared at the crowd of people surrounding them and unabashedly staring. They scattered and hastily averted their gazes.

Julia looked as if all she wanted to do was take her kids away and fly them home, or even better, to a different country away from House. But one of them, eyes red and watery, piped up, "We came to see the Niagara Falls," she said in a trembling voice. "Please let us go see the Falls. Uncle House hasn't done anything wrong – he rolled over the foot of the man who knocked into me and made me drop my ice-cream."

Julia was visibly torn between disappointing her kids and keeping them 'safe'. "Fine," she finally snapped. "But we're staying away from him at all times. Different floors, different tables, different _everything_."

"Fine," Wilson couldn't resist biting out. "Don't think I could stand it otherwise."

"I'll see you back at the hotel then," Cuddy said coolly. "We'll need to talk."

"Yeah," Julia shot back. It was quite clear she thought her sis had gone stark raving mad. "We definitely need to talk."

Julia hustled her three kids away, muttering under her breath, without a second look. Cuddy stood there, stunned for a moment before she became aware of Rachel wrapping herself around her hips. Cuddy crouched down and embraced her daughter. She tried to catch House's eye, but House stared determinedly in his lap, shut down and stony. Wilson's hand on House's shoulder did nothing.

"Aunt Julia hit House," Rachel sobbed. Cuddy could feel her shirt getting wet with snot and tears. "She was so mean. I hate her! She's a bitch!"

"Language, Rach," Cuddy reprimanded half-heartedly. Rachel hadn't cried in public for a year – she was going through a _girls are tough too_ phase, and said crying was for wimps. And yet here she was, sobbing openly over how Julia had treated House in front of everyone.

"But she is one! She hit House!"

"Okay," Cuddy soothed. She suspected the tears sprung not only from how House had been treated, but also from fatigue at the long, exciting day. "She's gone now. Everything's fine. I'm sorry you had to see that. House is fine, see?"

At that, House shifted in his chair. "I'm okay," he said awkwardly. At the lack of a response from Rachel, he withdrew into himself again, eyes downcast.

At some point, Rachel's hysterical crying faded into occasional hiccupping. Cuddy's gut feel had been right – Rachel had dropped off into exhausted slumber. Wilson scooped Rachel up into his arms – and she buried her head in his shoulder, fast asleep.

Cuddy crouched down on the floor next to the wheelchair. She gently touched House's cheek, where a livid scratch was clear, courtesy of Julia's sharp fingernails. "House…" she said softly. But she actually had no idea what to say. What was the appropriate thing to say in a situation like this?

House withdrew away from her, refusing to meet her in the eye.

"Let's just head back to the hotel, okay?" Wilson said in a low voice. "It's been a long day."

* * *

><p>Cuddy spent a good half an hour locked up with Julia in a room talking – or rather, arguing – things out. In the end, Julia emerged looking ashamed. But she still stubbornly insisted on keeping House away from herself and her kids, and not apologizing to House for the slap ("Apologise?" she had shrieked. "<em>Apologise<em> to the guy who could have _killed_ me? He hasn't even apologized for what he did!"). She tried to insist on Rachel staying away too, but found herself unable to do so thanks to Rachel's and Cuddy's vehement protests. Rachel, in fact, tried to _bite_ Julia when she tried to drag her away.

With everyone worn out from the day's events, pizza was the order for dinner. Cuddy left Rachel – who adamantly refused to be even in the same room as her Aunt Julia and the perceived traitor, Penny, who had messaged Julia their location in the theme park – with Wilson in her room.

"Hey," she said softly as she entered the dimly lit room.

There was no response from House, who had the blankets drawn up to his chin.

Cuddy slipped into the bed and drew the covers up around them both. It was a super single sized bed, so it was a tight fit. But it was what they needed right now. She pressed her body closer into his, reminding him that she was still somehow here, in front of him.

With a shuddering sigh, he finally opened his eyes. Still, he kept his hands firmly to himself. Cuddy slowly drew his arm up and around her waist, and wrapped her own arm around him. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of him, which was still detectable despite the generic fragrance of the hotel soap and the scent of the lotion for neuropathic pain.

"There's pizza for dinner," she whispered. "You hungry?"

His hand tightened fractionally around her waist as he shook his head.

"We can just lie here for a while then."

She wanted him to say anything, maybe insult Julia. She wouldn't have minded, not at this moment. She would have liked for him to hold her tighter to him, or simply bury his face in her hair. Because at this moment, she didn't know what to say either.

Nothing.

Despite the space between them, he remained unmoving from his spot. He just closed his eyes and went to sleep.

* * *

><p>The weather degenerated further in the night; rain fell from the skies for several hours, giving rise to a chilly morning that was more reminiscent of winter than spring.<p>

A good night's sleep had washed away all unpleasant memories of the day before for the Julia's kids. The same, however, couldn't be said for the adults. And Rachel. Julia sat across the room from them for breakfast, refusing to let her kids come within twenty feet of House. Rachel, though, stubbornly stuck by House's side, even slipping her hand into his and pecking him on his cheek, though she looked a little dejected at being separated from her cousins.

Cuddy had been half afraid that Rachel would attempt to bite Julia again. The feeling of animosity was not going to die down anytime soon. Rachel, like her mother, had a protective streak in her that would have her going to all lengths to protect those whom she loved.

House had initially refused to go to the Falls today, saying he wasn't feeling well. But after a quick five-second eye-contact conversation with Wilson – _uninterrupted night's sleep, physically as well as he could be, shouldn't stay alone in the room mulling over the events of the previous day_ – during which his opinion was made clear with the shake of a head, she had managed to persuade House to come along. Rachel helped, of course.

It only worked because he felt guilty. Whether it was for whatever had happened years ago, or for what had happened yesterday, Cuddy had no idea.

"So we're going on the Maid of the Mist," Rachel chattered excitedly as she walked next to House, "Did you know that it's engines have to be strong enough to travel against the current, which is really really _really_ strong? And we'll get drenched and we'll need raincoats and that the Falls is 167 feet high!" She dumped her maroon backpack casually on House's lap, and dug inside it. She retrieved a disposable camera and waved it in his face, "It's water-proof! I'm all prepared."

She proceeded to wheedle and whine and almost burst into tears before House finally allowed her to take a photo of him, Cuddy and Wilson in front of the boat.

They ended up on the top deck at Rachel's insistence. The boat was fully wheelchair-accessible, and they manage to grab a spot right at the edge, allowing them a prime view.

Cuddy fussed at Rachel, who had put on her raincoat wrongly after insisting she could do it herself. Then, Rachel couldn't find the swimming goggles that she had brought, and insisted that Cuddy help her find it. An ex-patient of approached Wilson, and Wilson wandered off to meet the family. Wilson, most unsurprisingly, could remember this patient, the names of the three kids who had been two, ten and fifteen, that the wife was an accountant and that they had three golden retrievers who loved to roll around in their garden.

Of course, House had rolled his eyes at Wilson.

At some point, House found himself alone at the corner that they had staked a claim on.

"About yesterday," Julia somehow had found it in herself to approach him. Her three Ps, however, were safely several feet away. "I'm not sorry about what happened."

House turned his wheelchair to face her. "And I don't need you to feel sorry."

"Maybe it was just wrong for me to say that you deserve to die – "

"I think that constitutes feeling sorry."

"Shut up," Julia snapped. She grasped tightly at the railing of the boat, and looked down at him. "You could have _killed_ someone. We had nightmares for weeks. You made her uproot her entire life in Princeton in order to get away from you, and the memories. You _ruined_ her life. You spread misery because your life sucks."

All argument and insult died on House's lips.

"Why are you back? She was happy in New York. You're back, and dying. It's not going to make her happier – it's going to make her feel worse, because she has to watch you die. She has to cope with work, and being a mum, and you. And after… what happens?"

House was silent.

"If you love her, as you claimed – alright, _claim_ – to do so," Julia leaned in, the Cuddy-women brand of determination blazing in her eyes. "No, actually, I have serious doubts about your capacity to love and be selfless. So if you loved her, you wouldn't have wormed your way back into her life. So, if you really do love her, maybe it's best for you to leave, and not subject her to misery by your side." She straightened, clearing her throat. "I'm just protecting my sister, like she has always protected me…Think about it."

And then she walked away.

As if on cue, the boat started to move. Cuddy reappeared with a suited-up Rachel bouncing in tow. She scanned House with a critical eye before relaxing. "Where's Wilson?"

House forced his lips to turn up at the corners. "Met some patient who went all grateful and slobbery on him."

Cuddy seemed satisfied at that answer. As the boat chugged away from the shore, they looked out at the vast expanse of water. House sneaked a look at Cuddy and Rachel from out of the corner of his eye; Cuddy had her arm around Rachel, who was practically vibrating with energy.

Julia was good.

She knew that once she planted an idea in his head, he would never be able to let it go. As he looked at Cuddy _(those jeans were tighter on her three weeks ago, did she use to have that line etched between her eyebrows?)_ and Rachel _(excited, but kept sneaking glances at House when she thought he wasn't looking, as though she was afraid he would collapse any moment)_ and Wilson _(more grey at the temples, the slight double chin and paunch totally gone) _he wondered if he really was ruining their potential for happiness by simply existing in their lives. It was perhaps better that they had never reunited, because they would still be happy in New York, and he would be fine alone (_with Wilson_, he reminded himself) back in Princeton. He never meant to worm his way back into their lives – everyone in his life has, at some point or another, in some way or another, said that he spreads misery, and that he wants them all to be like him.

But he honestly didn't want them to be like him; he couldn't get why they just kept coming back like moths fatally drawn to a flame.

The team shouldn't have welcomed him back, and shouldn't have accommodated him; they had gone years without him anyway. Wilson shouldn't have asked him to move back in. Arlene shouldn't have thought that her daughter and he were meant to be together. Rachel shouldn't have wanted him back in her life. Cuddy shouldn't have moved from where she was happy, back to a place where there were only miserable memories.

It didn't make sense. Nobody could possibly give that much without expecting anything in return. He had nothing good to give them. Only bad things ever came out of him.

Amber. The car. Chase losing Cameron. Kutner.

He was sucking away everyone's happiness bit by bit. Yet, they wanted him to do the experimental trial and live for a longer time.

It did not make sense at all.

House couldn't figure it out. He had been content to live and let be at first, but now, he couldn't get his head around it. The sharp-minded logical diagnostician in him couldn't understand how the hell they could stand to be around someone like him who had nothing to offer them. Yes, he wanted to be happy with them from this moment on, but that was selfish of him. He had no right to demand to even _expect_ that they remain by his side. Not after all he'd done.

But now what? There was –

"House," Rachel flapped her hand excitedly at him, the universal language for _come see_, "We're reaching the Falls! Look!"

House remained rooted to the spot, mind still reeling. He found himself being wheeled closer to Rachel and the side of the boat – he looked up to see Wilson grasping the handles of his wheelchair – and then suddenly, he found his breath being taken away.

The scientist in him knew that rainbows formed when light was refracted when entering a water droplet, reflected off the back of the drop, and then again refracted as it left the drop. And the rain the previous night resulting in the misty morning, coupled with the water coming off the Falls, resulted in ideal conditions for the formation of rainbow.

But that didn't mean that the rainbows in front of him were any less beautiful or any less breathtaking.

It was almost as if everything faded away. Rachel's squeals of excitement, the murmur of the passengers as they pointed at the phenomenon, the thunderous roar of the water crashing down at the foot of the Falls, the throbbing ache in every part of his body… they all faded into the background. It was like he was in a vacuum, with a singular focus on the wondrous sight in front of him.

When he came back to himself, he was glad that everything around him was wet.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Not villianising Julia Cuddy or anything, but I needed someone who would give the opposite view – what House did would have been extremely traumatizing for everyone, especially someone who wasn't used to his antics. And what Cuddy is doing here can be perceived to be absolutely crazy. __Here's hoping I get my muse back for Collapse. I have several stories brewing in my head, but real life has to give me a break first. _


	17. Chapter 17

"How is he?"

Cuddy looked up to see Wilson. He sank down on the couch next to her and passed her a salad, while he unwrapped his own sandwich.

She glanced over at House, who was asleep in the bed. She had managed to persuade Nelson to let them administer the treatment in PPTH instead of travelling to Sloan-Kettering.

"Okay," she replied quietly. "For now. He complained of some minor discomfort earlier, and vomited twice, but the anti-emetic worked. He fell asleep about an hour ago."

Wilson surveyed the file in his hands. "The second round of drugs was administered two hours ago." He closed the file and pinched his nose bridge. "The first round is always the easiest. Now we just have to wait and see what this round will bring."

"Yeah."

They sat there in silence for a while. Cuddy picked at her salad and tried not to fidget. "He's been awfully quiet recently."

"Since the trip we took, you mean."

Cuddy sighed in relief. "Yeah. I thought I was imagining things."

"No," Wilson assured her. "You're right. I've noticed it too. And it's not just because he's tired or not feeling well. This is different."

Cuddy gave up and set down the salad on the table. "Do you think it's because I asked him to undergo the treatment?"

Wilson leaned back against the couch and chewed thoughtfully. "Maybe. But I don't think that's all. He had agreed to the treatment before the trip, and he was fine then. And this is House – he must want to do this himself, or your opinions wouldn't hold sway over him at all."

"Julia, then."

"Maybe. But you've said it before – she disliked him even before you guys broke up. And he knows that."

"Even now, I still can't figure him out, Wilson," Cuddy admitted. "I don't know how to help him, or what he wants me to do, or what I should do. He won't let me in, and I don't know what he's feeling."

Wilson stared at Cuddy. "You really don't get it, do you?"

Cuddy was surprised. "Get what?"

"That he'll do anything for you, even though it's not supposed to be about you."

"What…?"

"When you guys were together before… he did anything you wanted him to do. He got rid of his masseur. He practically _scrambled_ to find something common between the both of you. He asked to meet Rachel, because he wanted the relationship to progress."

"House does things for the people he loves, in the most screwed up ways. He electrocuted his brain for me in order to save Amber. He made Thirteen a promise to kill her. He tried to chase Sam away because she hurt me once before. He went all out to woo Stacy, but sent her away anyway, because he felt he couldn't give her happiness. That was his way of wanting her to be happy – he just felt that she couldn't be happy with him."

"Wilson…"

"But with you, he wanted a relationship that lasted, and he was willing to do anything for it. He was prepared to make long-term changes and compromises. He _changed_." Wilson stopped, and reached for Cuddy's hand. "How come you can't see this, Cuddy? He's the most unselfish selfish ass in the whole world. He's a walking oxymoron."

Cuddy's lips moved without forming words as she struggled with what to say. "I know," she admitted. "I just… I don't want him to die, Wilson."

Wilson sighed. Once again, he rued the whole screwed-up nature of both his friends. And himself. They were a bunch of screwed-up people. "He's doing this only because we want him to, you know. It's not very House, is it? Doing something for others."

"It's not," Cuddy agreed softly. She had refused to admit so, because it seemed so selfish of her – her subjecting him to painful treatment in order for him to hang around longer. And it was just her nature to not admit her flaws. It was so much easier to focus on others' flaws.

But she knew it was true. He was doing this because he had promised to stay around for as long as possible, and because he knew it mattered to her.

"He's doing this for you… but don't make it about you. It's okay if you don't know how to help him, or how to go about doing this," Wilson said quietly. "There is no real way to prepare or plan for this, beyond what we've already done. What matters is that you're here. Everything else will come naturally."

* * *

><p>"You paged, Dr Wil – "<p>

"A change of sheets, and more blankets," Wilson cut the nurse off unceremoniously. "ASAP, please." He held the emesis basin under House's chin. "Okay," he repeated over and over again as he rubbed House's upper arm. "You're okay. Take it easy."

Tremors wrecked House's body as he shivered, and shivered, and shivered. He leaned over the basin and vomited again before letting his head fall back onto the pillow with a _plop_ again. He weakly curled up on his side, wrapping his arms around his stomach with a low groan. "W-Wilson," his teeth chattered. "Your specialty sucks."

"Your cancer sucks. You're running a fever."

"Round…"

"Third round. Three – " Wilson was interrupted by House leaning over to vomit again, "You're doing well. Three rounds to go. We'll be transferring you to the clean room tonight. By the next round, your immune system will be completely wiped out."

He poured out a cup of water and wrapped House's fingers around it before guiding it to his mouth, letting him take a few sips to rinse his mouth. He used the wet cloth to gently House's lips and chin, not caring if he got vomit on his hand. Sores were already starting to form on House's chapped lips and his skin was burning hot to the touch. Wilson exchanged the soiled cloth for a clean one, and began wiping House down with cool water in a bid to bring his temperature down.

House shifted uncomfortably in the bed, eyes only half-open. "Wilson," he rasped, "Where's Cuddy?"

"She had to pick Rachel up from school."

"She's coming back, right?"

If Wilson thought the question was odd, he didn't comment. "Yeah," he confirmed. "She's coming back."

House was placid as they changed the vomit and sweat-stained sheets, reacting only when they jostled his leg. He did, however, manage to weakly flip his middle finger at Wilson when Wilson wiped down his genitals, which truth be told, comforted Wilson greatly.

After House was dressed in the clean scrubs, Wilson lifted House's right knee and slipped the memory foam pillow underneath; a warm compress went over the scar, and then the layers of blankets pulled up to House's armpits.

House's eyes were still closed when he fumbled with the blankets and extended his hand. "Wilson?"

"Yeah," Wilson slipped his hand into House's hand, and was rewarded with a bone-crushing squeeze.

"Cuddy's coming back, right?" What could only be termed anxiety was plain in House's raspy voice. "She said she would come back."

Wilson frowned, and leaned over, looking, really looking into House's glassy, fever-bright eyes. "She's coming back, House."

"Don't leave."

Wilson knew House wasn't really lucid, but it still hurt to hear it. "I'm not leaving."

"You _left_."

Which time, Wilson wondered. Which time? Was it when he left House on the floor of the apartment that Christmas Eve? Or was it after the bus crash, after Amber? Or was it when House had to make space for Sam to move in?

"I came back... I'm not leaving this time."

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry."

Wilson was quiet for a moment, simply because he didn't know what to do. All his oncologist bedside manners had deserted him. In fact, he felt like turning on his feels and running away, because it was so hard to do this.

"There's nothing to apologise for," he whispered. He rubbed his thumb in circles over House's knuckles. "Rest, House. Please rest."

And he continued talking, almost babbling, about everything and anything - latest episode of the soaps, latest celebrity news, recent progress in medicine, his latest spanish telenovela's ending and how crappy it was, latest sports fixtures and results - until House fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

><p>Cuddy glanced down impatiently at her watch as she waited outside the classroom. She had lied to Wilson, actually. Rachel had gone over to Denise's house. Rachel's teacher, a Ms Lloyd, had actually requested to meet her.<p>

"Dr Cuddy," Ms Lloyd stepped out of the classroom. "Sorry to keep you waiting. We had a bit of a mess created here earlier."

"It's no problem," Cuddy straightened, and took Ms Lloyd's hand, shaking it firmly. "Is anything the matter?"

"Do you mind sitting in one of the chairs, or shall we – "

"Oh no, it's fine," Cuddy hastily assured. She settled down in one of the classroom chairs. At least Ms Lloyd didn't sit at the teacher's table, choosing to settle down in the next chair. "Did Rachel do something wrong?"

"Oh, no, Rachel hasn't done anything wrong. She's a lively, bubbly child, as you know, and she brings laughter and life into classes."

Nothing Cuddy hadn't heard before. "So what's wrong?"

"I just wanted to find out if there were any problems at home…? I know you're a really busy woman, Dr Cuddy, but I know you've always made the effort to spend time with Rachel. She's been rather subdued lately. Distracted. I've tried talking to her, but she said everything was fine."

Cuddy was stunned. "Oh."

"I am very concerned. I have noticed a marked drop in the standard of the work she hands in."

Cuddy twiddled her fingers, staring down at her shoes.

"Dr Cuddy?"

Cuddy came to herself with a start. "I'm sorry," she said as she slowly flattened her palm on the desk. She traced the scratchy symbols carved in the desk – there was a heart, a tic-tac-toe diagram, and the name _Chris_. "Things have been rather hectic lately." She paused, then added, "A family member is ill, and she's rather attached to him." She considered for a while before finally admitting, "He's my partner, actually."

"May I ask – "

"Cancer," Cuddy answered quietly. "Late-stage pancreatic cancer."

Ms Lloyd nodded. "I'm sorry. It must be tough on you."

"We tried to make things easier. He's staying with Rachel's godfather. We go over on good days for dinner."

"Children can be remarkably perceptive. They can tell if something is wrong from our moods and our actions even if we try our best to hide it from them."

"I thought she was handling it well," Cuddy said in a rush. "She's always been around the hospital where I work. She took it well when her classmate, Tammy, passed away in that car accident. She's been her usual self around House and Wilson and I – "

"Watching a loved one slowly fade away is infinitely more painful than learning from someone else that he or she died," Ms Lloyd said gently. "And as much as it is affecting Rachel, I'm sure it's affecting you and your family as well. Dr Cuddy… I'm not an expert or anything. But perhaps you need to talk to Rachel instead of assuming that she _is_ okay with it. Let her know what will happen, instead of leaving her to guess or assume. She is a perceptive child. And wildly imaginative."

"I know."

"I will continue to keep an eye on her in school. Please take care of yourself as well, Dr Cuddy. I will keep your family in my prayers."

"I'll talk to her tonight," Cuddy stood up and straightened her pencil skirt. She uncomfortably avoided what she knew was pity in the eyes of the young teacher. "Thank you, Ms Lloyd."

* * *

><p>Cuddy glanced sidelong at her daughter, who was staring out the window at the nightscape. "How was Denise's?"<p>

"Good."

"The math project…?"

Cuddy braked suddenly, flinging her arm out instinctively to shield Rachel as the car in front came to an abrupt halt. "Sorry, sweetie."

"It was that guy's fault. All done. Denise is a math whiz."

Cuddy felt like she was talking to a sullen teenager. It was several years too early for her to have to handle this.

"You hungry?"

Rachel finally turned around. "Yeah."

"Let's grab something to eat then."

"But don't you have to go see House at the hospital?"

"Wilson's there. We haven't had a meal, just us two, for a long time. What do you feel up for?"

Rachel took a long time to consider, so long that Cuddy thought she might have dozed off. "Fish and chips."

"Let's head to The Wharf then."

Cuddy noticed the minute smile on Rachel's face out of the corner of her eye.

They got seated at a booth almost immediately despite the restaurant being packed to the brim. "Luck," Rachel proclaimed. "We were meant to eat here tonight. Just like how you found that parking space the instant we turned in." She didn't even need to scan through the menu. "Can I have a coke?"

"Sure."

Rachel turned to the waitress. "I'll have a coke and the house fish and chips."

"An iced tea for me." Cuddy was very proud of the fact that Rachel was not a shy child. She was only five when she started ordering her own food. "And the pan seared barramundi."

"How has school been lately, Rach?"

Rachel spoke as she laid out the utensils on the table. "Well, Peter Dunn got hit in _down there_ by the ball the other day. He rolled around in agony for about fifteen minutes. I tried really hard not to laugh. All the other kids were laughing at him."

"It's good that you tried not to laugh," Cuddy straightened her fork and knife before leaning over. The restaurant was noisy. "I think I would have laughed."

"Maybe I giggled, just a bit. His face was all squinty and he was crying. Hmmm… We got a new student. Her name is Sunday. I feel sad for her - her name is weird."

"Still not as bad as Jermajesty."

Cuddy recalled Rachel stumbling upon a list of twenty most bizarre celebrity baby names. They had spent a good fifteen, twenty minutes laughing at the names of the list. There was Tu Morrow, Moon Unit, Diva Thin Muffin, Blue Angel, and Jermajesty.

"Jermajesty, child of Jermaine Jackson," Rachel grinned. "Tu Morrow, son of Rob Morrow."

They laughed out loud, bent over their aching stomachs, only for Rachel to stop abruptly.

"What's wrong?" Cuddy asked.

"It's wrong."

"Wrong?"

"It's wrong for us to be happy."

Cuddy had a rough inkling of what was going on. "Why is it wrong?"

"You _know_," Rachel burst out, her lip trembling. "You _know_ why."

"Because of House?"

"Because House is _sick_! And he's _dying_! And it's not right!"

"He's not dying," Cuddy replied automatically.

"I _heard_ you guys talking that night when I went to get a glass of milk."

Cuddy reached over to thumb away the tears that had fallen. "He's fighting," she murmured. "That's why he's getting the treatment in the hospital. And you know he's a fighter."

"What if it doesn't work? What if it isn't enough?"

"Then," Cuddy paused, "Then at least we'll know that we tried our very best, and fought the good fight."

"That's unfair!" Rachel scrubbed furiously at her face with her sleeve. "This sucks."

"I know, sweetie, I know. But it isn't wrong for us to be happy, or to enjoy ourselves every now and then. We had fun at Darien Lake with House last week. And you know how he still watches _Yes Prime Minister_ and _Modern Family_ and _Arrested Development_."

"He watches Modern Family for Sofia Vergara and her boobs."

"He still laughs with you though. I remember very clearly, because you both upended the mac and cheese onto the couch."

Rachel ducked her head, smiling at the memory. "Sorry. It _was_ a funny moment." She paused, then asked, "What's going to happen from now on?"

Cuddy cleared her throat and straightened, but not before taking hold of Rachel's hand. She rubbed small circles on the ridge of knuckles. "We'll see if the treatment works."

"And if it doesn't?"

"If it doesn't… If it doesn't, we'll just have to make do."

"It's going to be scary," Rachel confided, pulling at her shirt sleeve. "I'm scared."

"It's okay to be scared." _Wilson and I are scared too._ "But facing scary things is what makes us strong, right?"

"Is it going to hurt more than the leg?"

Cuddy hesitated. "Yes," she said slowly. "But we'll try and make it hurt as little as possible."

"What if he dies no one is around?"

"We're going to make sure that there is always someone there with him."

"What if I'm the someone there with him alone? And I don't know what to do?"

"We won't put you in that position, sweetie. You're too young." Cuddy half-expected Rachel to protest at the statement, but Rachel remained quiet. "I know this is hard. But things will be okay."

"I talked to Karen that day. Her grandmother died two months ago. She said her heart still hurts." Rachel placed her palm to her chest. "Over here. Everyday."

"I know," Cuddy whispered. She traced Rachel's jaw with a finger, finishing with a gentle tug on the shirt collar. "So it makes sense that we're happy now, right?"

"I guess. House would hate to know that we're upset," Rachel nodded, then in a moment of perceptiveness, added, "He doesn't like attention."

"You're right," Cuddy smiled. She lifted Rachel's chin. "So chin up, yeah?"

"Okay."

"You know you can always talk to me. Or ask me if you need to know something."

Rachel nodded.

The food arrived, the aroma of French fries wafting through the air. Cuddy surreptitiously watched her daughter polish off the fish and chips. Rachel was an intelligent child, so much so that sometimes, Cuddy forgot that she was just a nine-year-old who was bewildered by the things happening around her in the world. And no nine-year-old should have to witness the deterioration of the human body caused by cancer, simply because it was ugly, and there was no good way to hide it.

Cuddy finally understood why House refused to stay at her place. Why he would allow Rachel to come over only when it was not a bad day. Why he would remain on the couch, not moving for the entirety of the evening, until they left.

For a supposedly abrasive and selfish jerk, he sure had a selfless streak. And god, House was not a jerk, or a bastard, or an ass. Okay, maybe he was an ass. Unlike most other people, who were worse than they portrayed themselves to be, he was different. He was _better_ than he strove to appear to be. Way better.

And that, Cuddy decided, was why she was irresistibly drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

"The fish and chips are good?"

"Super good. Can I go see House after this?"

Cuddy winced internally. She had had to tear herself away from his side when Ms Lloyd had called. The fever then had just been low-grade, but it was sure to have escalated by now. Not to mention the other ugly side-effects that would have reared their head. And House was supposed to be in a clean room by tonight.

"I'm afraid not." Cuddy poked at her asparagus. "I'm really sorry, Rach, but you won't be able to go near him anyway. He'll be in a clean room because his immune system will have been wiped out by the treatment. He'll be home really soon."

"Do you think he'll be able to make it for the game next next week? He said he would come. He said he wanted to see me kick their asses."

"Language," Cuddy reprimanded half-heartedly. "We'll have to see how things go. I can't make any promises on his behalf."

"This sucks. I want him to get well."

"Me too," Cuddy said softly. She'd never been particularly religious. But she prayed every night now, prayers of blessing and healing and for strength and for courage and for there to be less pain. "Me too."

* * *

><p><em>AN: My apologies for the lack of updates are probably getting old. Let's hope the muse is back for real - I have the time to write, but not the muse and inspiration. Leave a review to at least let me know you're at least still reading. (And wow, I honestly can't believe there is no House to look forward to this Aug/Sept - missing the show very much!) _


	18. Chapter 18

The phone call came when she was just about to get into bed. The nurse couldn't offer her any details; she just said that Dr Wilson requested Cuddy go in immediately.

After throwing on a cardigan, ballet flats and a pair of jeans, she scooped a soundly sleeping Rachel out of her bed, lay her flat in the backseat, and sped all the way to the hospital.

Rachel stirred as they stepped into the hospital lobby. "Mom?"

"It's okay, Rach," Cuddy hushed. "They paged me for an emergency."

"Is it House?" Rachel visibly tried to rouse herself further, but failed. Cuddy thanked the stars that Rachel was worn out from a school field trip. "Is something wrong?"

Cuddy made a split-second decision. "No. Power has gone out on the second floor, and I need to make sure that everything is okay." She tugged lightly on Rachel's hand. "You can continue sleeping on the couch, okay? Nurse Carrie will be just outside."

Rachel nodded blearily, one hand rubbing her eyes. After a quick detour to settle Rachel on the couch in the staff lounge, she hurried to the clean room where House was for the week. There, she was greeted by the sight of Wilson, Chase and a nurse in the clean room administering to House, whose eyes were closed. She noted with relief that House's chest was still rising and falling, though she was dismayed to see an oxygen mask on his face.

She punched the intercom button. "Wilson," she tried to remain calm. "Chase. What's going on? Is House alright?"

Chase and Wilson exchanged looks. It was a long moment before Chase nodded at Wilson, signaling that he could handle things. Wilson stepped away from the bed.

Cuddy waited impatiently at the door of the clean room, twisting her fingers. It was a long moment. Wilson emerged from the clean room, stripping off his mask. However, Cuddy was soon distracted by the fact that Chase was removing the IV bag of treatment drugs despite the fact that it was only half-empty.

"Why did you stop the treatment?" Cuddy demanded. "He's only halfway through with this dose!" They were halfway through the entire course of treatment, and the test results had been promising. Promising, she reminded herself, despite the fact that they were borderline so. It was a start.

Wilson slumped against the glass wall. "We have to stop the treatment."

"What do you mean we have to stop? The scans showed that the tumors have shrunk! It's _working_."

"He's unconscious. The treatment is working, but his body can't take it anymore; it's too toxic. I ran the tests myself." Wilson handed her a sheet of test results. "His kidneys are beginning to fail, and his liver isn't doing too well either."

Cuddy scanned through the results. She noted dimly that the sheet of paper was trembling. Oh. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. "No – how can this… it was working. The tumors – they shrank. He was doing so well."

"He can't take the treatment anymore, Cuddy."

"Wilson…"

Wilson's reply was harsh. "His body can't take it. Anymore, and his liver is going to fail. He'll die faster. He'll _die_ from the treatment, Cuddy." He seemed to realize that he was too harsh, for he took a deep breath and whispered. "I'm sorry. It's just – I was so hopeful. But the numbers don't lie. He can't take anymore of this, Cuddy."

Cuddy couldn't find it in herself to blame Wilson for his outburst. She had gone to him with this treatment, and had dangled in front of him (and herself) this tiniest hope despite knowing the odds that it would work.

The worst thing was, it had worked. The tumors had shrunk – marginally, but they had still _shrunk_ – and the numbers were looking good. It looked like House was being House, fighting the odds and starting to beat them soundly. They were all full of hope that maybe this would be a miracle.

But somewhere inside her, where the doctor in her was, not the girlfriend who stood to lose her love, Cuddy knew that she had been expecting this. The odds were just stacked too high against House. It was because it was so toxic that it was effective.

Cuddy looked into the clean room. House lay on the bed, which was elevated slightly to help with his breathing. She had no idea if it was her imagination, but was there a stronger tinge of yellow in his skin? With one glance at the urine drainage bag, she knew that Wilson was right. The color was definitely off, and next to come would be rust, or tea-colored urine that she was sure she never wanted to associate with House ever again, not after the infarction years back when his kidneys had failed.

The test results weren't lying. The numbers couldn't lie to her. If House were awake, he would be berating her for even having the slightest doubt about the numbers.

She closed her eyes for a long while and leaned her forehead against the glass wall. It was the closest she could get to House at the moment. Then, she forced herself to straighten her body. She turned to look at Wilson. "So what's next?"

Wilson's reply was soft. "Palliative care." With Nelson's treatment, they had been fighting. Now, they were back to palliative care, as they had been doing since they found metastasis, and Cuddy hated it. "A few more days in the clean room for his immune system to rebuild itself." It was unspoken that he meant what was left of House's immune system. "I've been wanting to insert a stent into his bile duct. We'll have to monitor his condition first. It's a minor procedure but I want him to be stronger first. I'm not taking any risks."

Cuddy remained silent. Wilson laid his hand on her shoulder as he slipped out of his doctor mode and into the role of a friend and a loved one. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I wanted it to work too."

Cuddy took a step closer to Wilson. She planted a kiss on his cheek. "You tried your best," she murmured. "Thank you." She leaned in and wrapped her arms around him.

And as he returned the hug, she let go, and let herself be comforted.

* * *

><p>A soft, nearly inaudible moan alerted Cuddy of House's gradual climb towards consciousness.<p>

She immediately sprung up from her seat, lowered the bed rail and sat down on the bed next to him. As he blinked several times groggily, she leaned over and caressed his cheek.

The first thing House's unfocused eyes landed on was her smiling face. "Hi," she whispered. "You've been asleep for a long time."

House blinked several more times groggily. It was taking him a long time to focus, even longer than what he had taken after he had woken from his coma after the deep brain stimulation. He winced as he swallowed. Cuddy immediately retrieved the glass of water by his bedside and slipped the straw between his lips.

"How long?" House grimaced at his barely-there voice.

Cuddy made sure to maintain the smile on her face. "Two days."

Evidently, the look on her face must not have been as convincing as she thought, for House's curiosity was peaked. "You've been crying."

"Like I'll cry over you."

He blinked lazily, his lips quirking up slightly on the left side. "So you say."

Cuddy was horrified to find herself tearing up. So much for trying to maintain a strong front.

House slowly lifted his arm to try cup her jaw, brows furrowing.

Cuddy pursed her lips together, and her gown rustled as she shook. She grabbed his hand and placed it on her cheek.

Of course House realized something was wrong.

He craned his neck to look up at the IV stand. The absence of the silver bag of drugs from Nelson's trial was glaring. He stared for a while before letting his head drop, body relaxing into the hospital bed.

"It's too toxic for your body," Cuddy said softly. "We had to stop the treatment or your kidneys and liver would be gone."

The expression on House's face was inscrutable. He closed his eyes and shifted in the bed, coming to lie on his side. Cuddy fussed at his PICC line as she blinked back the tears rapidly. "Okay." He was breathless from just turning onto his side. "I – don't cry. Sorry."

It was so ridiculous, Cuddy realized. House was apologizing. What the hell was he apologizing for? It was not like he could magically persuade his body to withstand the treatment.

Cuddy found herself lying down in the bed. She didn't care if they were in a room encased in glass walls, where everyone could see her. All she wanted was to have House next to her, living and breathing and just… _alive_. "You have nothing to apologize for." She never thought she'd ever see the day he wouldn't have to apologize to her for something. She never thought she'd even see the day he would voluntarily apologize.

But… here they were.

That was the problem, she realized.

Though House had let his heart take the lead, putting aside the fears and rationalizations from his mind that the relationship wouldn't work, she had allowed her head to eventually win out over her heart. During their year together, she had believed that it wouldn't have been able to work in the long term. And she rued the day that she had allowed herself to give in to that dark side of hers, the side of her that believed that he would never be able to change and be a better person, all because of a single mistake.

He had fought for her, and had fought for their relationship. But she had allowed herself to give up when things appeared to be going southwards.

Now it was too late. She was fighting for him far too late. She hadn't realized how far gone they were.

If they had still been together; if he hadn't driven his car into her house, or if she hadn't pressed charges against him; if she hadn't thrown away that single letter he had sent while he was in prison; if she hadn't slammed the door in his face that morning he came to visit…

Would the cancer have been detected earlier if they had still in a relationship? What if House had stayed on with Wilson instead of running away, guilt-ridden and filled with self-loathing and believing himself not worthy of even that friendship? What if all this had never happened? What if she had never had that guy over for lunch, and House had never driven his car into her house, instead coming to terms with their failed relationship, and they had managed to coexist in PPTH, awkwardly but still together?

"Stop with the guilt." House dipped his head, his forehead coming to rest on her collarbone.

"I'm not – "

"It's radiating off you." He struggled to keep his eyes open. "Making me sick."

"Har dee har har." Cuddy mumbled. She ran her hand over his cheeks, fingers tracing the ridge of his eyebrows, wondering how she could ever live with the fact that one day, she would never see him, ever again. "Sleep."

"Well you look like shit too." He closed his eyes. "Get me out of here."

"Soon," Cuddy promised. She shifted a little closer to him, cupping his neck with her hand and fiddling with the nasal cannula. "You know you have to stay in here for a few more days. Wilson's also considering inserting a stent into your bile duct to alleviate some of the symptoms, but we'll have to wait and see how your body holds up."

House's breathing slowly began to even out, and the tension she hadn't realized was present slowly left, leaving him boneless and a heavy weight against a chest. She welcomed it.

A week ago, she might have asked him to come home with her. But after what she'd found out from Rachel's teacher… she was having second thoughts. He had been right. He was just trying to spare Rachel from what was already proving to be traumatic for her.

So Cuddy talked, and talked, and talked until her mouth went dry. When her mouth went dry, she let the beeps of the machinery lull her to sleep.

* * *

><p>"I knew it," House proclaimed as he transferred from the wheelchair to the couch. "My ass still fits perfectly on this couch."<p>

Wilson sighed unhappily. He was not happy at all. "I would have preferred it if you stayed a few more days in the hospital till the surgery."

At least House hadn't objected to the wheelchair. He suspected that House knew it was time to give in. Why inflict more pain on himself everyday? There was no longer a need to worry about muscle atrophy affecting future mobility. In House's own words, _there is no future_.

That was a can of worms Wilson did not want to open, which was why there was no way he was going to mention House using a wheelchair.

"I am going to shit rocks and pee disinfectant if I'm in there any longer." House sank into the pillows and let Wilson settle him in with a blanket. "So, _no_."

Wilson disappeared into the kitchen and emerged with a bowl of plain corn chips and two bottles of beer. House eyed the beer with a glint in his eye. "It's Christmas?" With more meds added to his regiment, Wilson had been extremely adamant in not allowing him to have any alcohol.

"Just one bottle. I timed this perfectly for minimum drug interaction."

"One bottle of beer isn't going to interact with anything," House grumbled.

"Quit complaining or I'll – "

"Okay, fine," House said hastily. "Gimme."

"Really? Those grabby hand gestures?" Wilson flopped down on the couch while somehow not spilling any beer or chips. "Very mature of you."

"Shut up." House took a long sip from the sweating bottle of beer. "It's taken you years of careful conditioning." He wiped away a non-existent tear. "Darling's all grown up. Breaking the rules and all."

"Shut up and just watch the movie."

By the halfway mark of _The Avengers_ – Wilson had been _horrified_ to learn that House had never watched it, since he had been in prison – House had fallen asleep, his mouth wide open as he snored through the massive noise of the action scenes.

Well, at least he had enjoyed ogling at Scarlett Johansson's banging bod on the 42". _Thank God for blu-ray_, he had said fervently.

Wilson lowered the volume of the movie till it was just a murmur in the background. Slowly and carefully, with one arm supporting the neck and the other around House's back, he shifted House to lie flat on the couch. It was a good couch, firm enough for lumbar support yet comfortable and sufficiently squishy. As he lifted House's legs off the coffee table and onto the couch, House frowned in his sleep, right hand twitching as though trying to reach for his leg. Wilson winced and moved even more slowly and gently.

He stood up slowly, grimacing at the knot in his back. Memory foam pillow for the leg, check. Pillow for the head, check. Cushions tucked between the back of the couch and House's side, check. Blanket, check.

Suddenly, Wilson felt exhausted.

He settled down into the armchair just a few feet away from House, leaning his head back against the headrest.

When the doorbell rang, Wilson instantly bolted upwards. House hadn't even stirred. He opened the door to reveal the two Cuddys.

"Sorry," Cuddy shrugged helplessly at Rachel, who was pushing past Wilson to get to the living room. "She just… she wanted to see him."

House had refused to let Rachel visit. Wilson could understand why – jaundice, numerous machines, the frequency at which bodily liquids made an appearance all made for a nightmare to children.

Rachel stood awkwardly in front of House. She fiddled with her fingers as she bounced on her toes nervously.

"You can touch him, you know," Wilson came to crouch next to her. "He won't break."

"He looks like he will," Rachel whispered back almost dramatically. Wilson recognized that voice. It was the _sick people_ voice. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah he's okay."

"You don't sound very convinced."

What a stinging, matter-of-fact statement from a girl half his size. Wilson glanced at Cuddy. One look and he could tell Cuddy had not told Rachel why exactly House was home from the hospital. He furrowed his brow at her, and she shot him a look of pure misery.

"Um," he hemmed and hawed. "He's – "

"Your sick person voices need some working on." Wilson fell backwards. House's eyes were still closed, but his raspy voice was clear as day. "Because I was sleeping, but now I'm not."

"House!" All three of them chorused.

"Yes, that _is_ my name."

Wilson rolled his eyes and heaved himself upwards. "I was just about to make some of my famous chicken and mushroom soup. The more the merrier." Cuddy smiled at him and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"Excuse me. I'm here, you know."

"Oh please," Cuddy rolled her eyes. She sat down gingerly by House's knees and placed her hand on his thigh. "Someone's being awfully quiet even though she claimed she would positively _drop dead_ if she didn't come over immediately."

House's eyebrow rose. "Quite the drama queen." He tilted his head towards Rachel. "What's up, squirt."

Rachel made a face. "No one uses the word squirt anymore."

"I do. I'm someone." House eyed Rachel critically. "You can touch me, you know. Your mom is practically cutting off blood circulation to my leg with that butt of hers anyway."

Cuddy poked House warningly and snorted. Rachel finally giggled, and bumped her body against House's dangling arm shyly.

Cuddy caught sight of House's discreet gesture. "Rach. Could you get House and I a glass of juice each please?"

"But Mo – "

"Please."

As Rachel trudged off to the kitchen sulkily, Cuddy wrapped her arms around House for a quick hug and a kiss at the temple before helping him sit up. It was harder for him to get up and going now, but he was accepting it with infinite grace. At least, infinite grace for his standards anyway. This time, he was still sleepy enough to not make too big a fuss, though she could feel the tension in his torso.

"You haven't told her, have you?" House finally asked, raising his head off the couch headrest after he caught his breath. He didn't need Cuddy's nod to go on. "Leaving me to do the dirty job. Sneaky."

Cuddy's silence was more than telling.

"Coward."

Cuddy shot House a dirty look.

He simply shrugged and gestured towards the kitchen imperiously from his corner in the couch. "Shoo."

Cuddy sighed, then tucked in the blankets and repositioned the pillow behind his back. "Are you comfortable?" She fussed over the blanket. "Are you comfortable?"

House rolled his eyes at her. "Seriously. Shoo." He shoved at her lightly with his left knee. "Make sure you ask before you do anything though. He gets touchy like that."

Cuddy reluctantly stood up and snagged a glass of juice from Rachel before shooting House a meaningful look, and slinking into the kitchen. "Is there any space for an amateur?"

Wilson looked up from his chopping board and smiled at her. "Of course." He frowned. "You do know how to dice onions, right?"

Cuddy smacked Wilson on the arm lightly. "Of course."

"You do spend all your time running a hospital."

"I can dice an onion, Wilson."

"Okay," he said doubtfully, stepping aside to let her take over the chopping and dicing. "After that you can work on the potatoes – you peel them first – then the carrots and then the mushrooms."

"Yes, Chef." As Cuddy got to work on the vegetables, she could feel Wilson's eyes on her. It felt like he wanted to shoo her out of the kitchen in order to work in peace. "Stop staring. I do know how to use a knife," she glared at him.

"House will kill me if you hurt yourself," Wilson mumbled.

"It's more like you don't want me to dice unevenly."

Wilson sulked back over to his bubbling pot. "He's talking to Rachel, isn't he."

"Yeah." Cuddy leaned back and peered at the living room. Rachel was sitting with House on the couch, nursing a glass of milk, maintaining a careful space between herself and House. Cuddy couldn't blame her for that. House seemed almost fragile now. It felt like a soft push or simple kiss could leave bruises on his paper-thin skin. "They're watching the final battle scene in The Avengers, though."

"Huh," Wilson breathed.

"Yeah."

The next time Cuddy peeked into the living room, Rachel was seated closer to House, seemingly less wary of hurting him. The movie's credits were rolling, and the sound was muted. House was speaking quietly to Rachel, so soft that Cuddy couldn't hear anything from the kitchen.

And that was that.

If things were quiet during dinner, or slightly moody, Cuddy didn't mention it. Not in front of Wilson, anyway, who kept shooting anxious looks at them all. Especially at House. Luckily, House's digestive system seemed inclined to retain the soup.

After dinner, Wilson sat down with Rachel to play a game of Go Fish to give Cuddy some time with House. Except Rachel kept giving House anxious looks, as though she expected him to pass out or collapse any moment.

So Cuddy wasn't surprised when Rachel burst into tears in the car.

"What's wrong, sweetie?" Cuddy was pretty sure she knew what was wrong. The final straw had been when Rachel went to the toilet, only to see certain things she had never really seen before. It was one thing to see them in a hospital, and another to see them in a home. Cuddy pulled over by the roadside and leaned over to tilt her daughter's chin up. "Why are you crying?"

Rachel just cried harder. It was a while before she could calm herself down enough to say two words.

"I'm _scared_."

The perfect two words to describe how Cuddy felt too. They all were, in one way or another.

All except House.

Oh, the irony.

The problem, Cuddy realized, was the way Rachel said it. She said it like she thought it was wrong to be scared.

"It's perfectly normal to be scared."

"You and Wilson aren't."

"We're adults. We're doctors." Cuddy paused, then added, "We've seen people die before."

But that didn't make it any easier.

"Rachel, honey," Cuddy thumbed away the tear tracks. "If you're really scared, we can visit House less often. It's perfectly fine. He'll understand."

"But – "

"It's really okay."

"It's selfish. I made him come back – " Ah yes, _that_ conversation in the hospital. " – and if I don't spend time with him now, it's _selfish_."

Cuddy knew this was time to stand up for Rachel again. Like she had walked away from House years ago for the sake of her daughter, she had to protect her daughter – who was so obviously petrified and overwhelmed – this time.

The difference this time was that this was what House wanted too. It was hard enough for him to show weakness in front of her and Wilson. And he knew: it was always the children who suffered. And Rachel didn't have to carry that burden on her nine-year-old shoulders.

The truth was that House had been back in Rachel's life for just _months_. He had been there for a year or two when she had been a toddler, but other than that… what were the odds Rachel would really remember him years down the road?

"Two more times," Cuddy found herself saying. "I'll bring you over two more times, okay? Then we'll have to stop, Rachel. House is okay with it, I promise."

It spoke volumes that Rachel agreed. Cuddy could tell she felt guilty, but the fear won out eventually. And Cuddy didn't blame her for it. She was just nine.

That night, when Rachel set up shop in the other half of Cuddy's bed, Cuddy didn't try persuade her to sleep in her own room instead. Instead, she lay down next to her daughter and placed a hand on her back, rubbing soothingly until she fell asleep, curled around the bunched up blankets.

The phone call came, as she expected it to.

He sounded sleepy. _"She cried?"_

"Yes," she whispered. "Are you in bed?"

"_Hiding under my covers with the phone like a teenager." _

She listened to him simply breathing for a while.

"She cried in the car. She's been pretty brave up till now."

Silence.

But she could still hear him breathing as she cradled the phone to her ear.

"Are you there?" It was all she wanted to know, all she wanted to ask these days. _Are you there? Are you still there? _

"_Yeah." _

"I told her I can only bring her over two more times."

She could hear rustling as he shifted in the bed. _"You should have done that a long time ago."_

"What's done is done."

Silence again. She didn't quite know what to say. What else was there to say?"

House seemed to understand. _"Goodnight, Cuddy."_

She resisted the urge to force him to stay on the phone with her forever and ever, just so that she would never have to hang up on him, just so that she could stay in this moment forever.

So she settled for, "I love you."

There was a sharp intake of breath on his side. For a moment, she thought he wouldn't say it back to her. So she went on trying to fill the silence.

"I'm going to miss you so much."

It was a while before he answered. Hours later, lying awake in bed, she would wonder what he was referring to. She didn't quite know which of her two statements she wanted it to be.

"_You shouldn't." _


	19. Chapter 19

She tugged lightly on her cardigan as she treaded carefully down the familiar hallways. The warm colors of the walls and flooring, the glass doors and windows, the open concept of the nurses' stations, they were all familiar to her. But over the years, the faces had changed. There were only one or two familiar faces that offered tentative smiles at her.

She found herself standing outside the office. Sitting behind the desk was someone she had not expected.

"Dr Robert Chase, M.D." she stepped into the office with a small smile. "I didn't expect your name to be on the door."

Chase offered a wane smile as he stood up. "Foreman couldn't resist the offer from Huntington Memorial. They were looking to set up – "

"A Diagnostics Department." She finished as she stepped into the room, which save for a few small changes here and there, remained exactly the same. "How are you holding up?"

A wry smile. "I have a good team."

"I hope you're less of an ass than he is."

Chase shook his head, laughing. "I sure hope so. The nurses haven't started drawing lots to avoid dealing with Diagnostics patients yet, so I think we're off to a good start."

"Oh, yes. Keep them on your good side. Makes life much easier."

They shared a moment's laughter before it trailed off, interrupted by the entrance of the team in the other room – all new faces she didn't recognise. She noted that Chase immediately perked up, a whole new, intense look coming over his once-boyish face. It was a look she used to see in House. But instead of ignoring her and heading straight into the differential like House would have done, Chase instead tore himself away from the hunt and looked at her. "I take it you're here for House?"

"I just… it was natural for me to come here, instead of elsewhere."

"You'll find him on the third floor, room 341." He checked his watch. "You've come at a good time, I think. Hospital food makes him cranky, so it's good that you're here at dinner. Wilson said he would whip something up."

The last time she'd seen Chase, he had been wary and almost terrified of his mentor and boss. But she could tell there had been something grudgingly special between House and Chase in the way House had fought tooth and nail for him. He always had cared deeply for his team members. Now, with the passage of time… it was refreshing to hear Chase talk about House almost affectionately.

Many things had changed.

House's room was at the end of the corridor, one of the larger ones in the hospital with a sofa bed. She felt herself hesitate as she approached the room, not quite knowing what to expect.

Then, there was a crash, and some frantic beeping.

A man brushed past her in a hurry, and as she quickened her footsteps, she realized that it was Wilson.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" She could hear Wilson from where he stood in the doorway, hands planted on his hips as he surveyed what lay in front of him in the room. He squatted down and prodded House's elbow. "What part of _call the nurses if you need help_ do you not understand?"

House, from where he lay on the ground, mumbled something she couldn't quite hear.

"And I thought you loved bossing the nurses around." The beeping stopped as Wilson turned off the offending machine. "You could have asked them for help."

"I am a big boy now, thank you very much."

Still the same, then.

Somehow, that offered her some comfort that things wouldn't be too bad. So she stepped forward, and crouched down next to Wilson.

"Hello, Greg."

She steadied Wilson when he nearly fell over.

House smirked. "Stacy."

Stacy Warner let her eyes rake over him. He was lying on the floor; scrub top half riding up on his torso to reveal a much thinner body. His hair was greyer and finer, no longer the thick and curly mess it used to be. His skin was tinged yellow, and looked papery-thin and dry.

"Well." She tugged down his scrub top and let her hand linger on his hip. "You look like shit." She ignored Wilson's sputter of protest.

"You look good." She was surprised at how earnest that statement was. "Now, do I need to proclaim _help I've fallen and I can't get up_ or what?"

It was easy to help him up – in fact, she suspected that even without Wilson, she could have done it easily. He leaned heavily into their support.

"Did you tear the stitches? Anything broken? Bruised?"

Stacy watched with slight amusement as Wilson fussed over House, tucking him in with the blanket and making sure that the IV lines weren't tangled. House took it with infinite grace. He wasn't combative, like she expected him to be. Instead, he was placid and let Wilson do what was necessary. It was a routine, she realized. House looked exhausted. He was panting slightly from just getting back on the bed.

"The floor offers more lumbar support than this stupid bed," he grumbled.

Wilson sighed – just the right amount to show that yes, House was being fussy, just enough to prevent any embarrassment or resentment on House's part – and rearranged the support pillow wedged between the lumpy hospital bed and House's back.

"Well," Wilson retorted, "You could have gotten out of here earlier if you didn't catch that infection. It was keyhole surgery, and you managed to get an infection. Incredible."

"Was it serious?" Stacy blurted out. "The infection, I mean. And the surgery."

Wilson and House turned to look at her. She was just a lawyer after all. Though she knew hospitals well, it was still overwhelming. "It was minor surgery. We inserted a stent into his bile duct to relieve the jaundice." Wilson schooled his face into mock annoyance and pointed an accusing finger at House. "But he had to go and catch a minor infection, so it's going to be another one or two days before he's out of this place."

Stacy inched the chair closer to his bedside, and laid a hand on the crook of his elbow. It was a position painfully reminiscent of the last time she sat by him in a hospital bed.

Wilson shot them both a meaningful glance before excusing himself out of the room when his pager beeped urgently.

The room was quiet for a long while.

Stacy leaned in, her lips turned down unhappily at the corners. "Did you not intend to tell me at all?"

He tilted his head towards her. "The plan was actually for no one to know."

"That's stupid. Even for an ass like you."

There was a long pause during which she let her eyes linger on him. His eyes were still as stunning as ever, and every bit as sharp. They stood out vividly from the rest of his gaunt and undeniably sickly face.

She gazed at him for a long time. "You should have accepted my help."

Once she had found out that he had been arrested, she had sprung into action despite Mark's protests. But he had done nothing. He had refused to speak to anybody, and had chosen to represent himself. She had been there when he'd plead guilty and had been led away to prison.

It broke her heart. And she always wondered if she had been the one to set him down this path by authorizing the surgery that left him in debilitating pain, that had _changed_ him, so many years ago.

"I didn't need it," he replied quietly.

"Everyone deserves a fair trial."

A beat, then, "It was fair."

Stacy was stunned into silence. "Oh, Greg," she whispered. "We could have gotten you out so much sooner."

He raised his eyebrows but remained silent. The implications of her statement – we could have caught it so much earlier, everything might have been different – were clear.

But that was the end of it, and she knew it.

"Mark sends his well-wishes." Then, she added, "He's at a camp with some of his school kids."

House didn't quite seem to believe her, but nodded once. "Kids?"

"Surrogacy." It had been the best solution – Mark had had a lengthy recovery period, and she had had a ticking biological clock. Stacy dug around in her handbag for the photo she always carried around. It was one of a little girl running around in the park. "Zoe. She's eight. And that's Rusty, her overly excitable Irish Setter."

Watching House trace Zoe's grinning face in the picture, Stacy continued, "She loves dogs, must sleep on her stomach and hates wearing skirts."

"She has your eyes. Mark's ears – too bad for her."

"Her ears are fine."

"So you say. Admit it – they're… unfortunate."

Stacy smiled. She'd missed this. She loved Mark – he was a great guy – but no one could ever live up entirely to the sparks House brought to the table with his biting wit, sarcasm, intelligence and passion.

"So," House set the photograph down on the blanket, and tilted his head to look at her. "Bring on the lawyerly spiel."

At least it was something she was good at, something that she wouldn't screw up. There were many things to settle, and instructions and legal terms to explain, but House remained as sharp and analytical as ever.

As they began to really get down into the details, House reached over to the telephone by his bedside and dialed a number.

"Get your ass over here now," he said into the phone.

Stacy expected it to be Wilson. Instead, it was Chase who walked through the door.

"_He's_ your medical proxy?!" Stacy glanced down at the papers to make sure she hadn't grabbed the wrong document by mistake.

"What? No!" Chase said, confused, as Stacy continued, "What's wrong with James?!"

There was a stunned silence.

"You haven't discussed this with him?" Stacy was scandalized, to say the least. House liked to spring surprises, but well, this took the cake. "Greg!"

House at least looked slightly guilty. Slight. "Give us a minute?"

Stacy stepped out of the room and slid the door shut. She unabashedly stood behind the glass and stared in. House gave her a pointed look, which she returned with her own raised eyebrow. He rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Chase.

As Stacy watched House and Chase begin to discuss, she was struck by just how far Chase had come. No longer was he agreeing with House all the time – he was in fact, almost bickering with House, gesturing strongly and expressively. But she could track the moment Chase began to back down: he slumped slightly and resignedly began to take House's request seriously.

When Stacy re-entered the room, she could tell that Chase was still a little unsettled. Who wouldn't be, with that great a responsibility hefted onto his shoulders? But she could see what House saw in Chase – he would take it seriously, and he wouldn't be afraid to make the difficult (and right) decisions. Chase had grown and learned much over the years, developing his own voice and courage and unique, almost Houseian moral code. That was partly why he had been able to remain in Diagnostics all these years, eventually rising to become the new Head.

They were just about to discuss the will when Chase took a look at the figures and did a visible double take. "That's… a lot of money."

House raised an eyebrow. "And your point is…?"

"I just… didn't think you would have that much." Chase ducked his head as House gestured for him to elaborate. "You steal food from Wilson. You drove a beat-up Dynasty for _years_." He wisely neglected to mention that it'd finally been put out of commission after House drove it into Cuddy's living room. "You blew it all on hookers and booze and the hotel after you broke up with Cuddy. You had to pay for damages to Cuddy's – yeah. You just… yeah," he finished lamely.

Stacy looked down at the statements in front of her, avoiding looking at both men.

House shifted in the bed and pointedly looked at the wall, muttering, "The leg… it would've gotten worse with age. Then what?"

Oh, thought Stacy. Ramps and other retrofittings, crutches, wheelchair, medication. Maybe even a home nurse, when it got really bad.

To some degree, House had expected himself to end up alone, with just himself and the leg, and the ever-present pain.

Somehow, that made Stacy feel a lot worse. And judging from the look on Chase's face, he felt the same. But Chase was schooled well enough, for the expression on his face that House would have detested soon faded away.

"So," Stacy interrupted, wanting to make things easier for everyone. "Let's continue, shall we?"

Chase snapped himself back to focus and cleared his throat. "Yeah, um, okay."

Things went smoothly until one particular decision had to be made.

"You don't want a DNR?" Stacy blinked.

"Is that such a surprise?"

"Quite."

"Just put it down."

Stacy shot Chase a look, who shrugged back. "Why not?"

"I don't recall lawyers having to ask that many questions."

"I'm asking as your friend."

"You don't have to know."

"Greg…"

"_No_."

Stacy sighed, but knew that was that.

As she shuffled all the documents into a single pile and began to pack up, House dropped his hand to stop her. "Don't tell them." He directed this to both her and Chase.

She didn't have to ask who _them_ was. "I know." Whatever reasons he had for making Chase his proxy, it wasn't her position to probe or interfere. Not anymore.

Chase nodded, and excused himself from the room with a tight smile.

Stacy packed her things slowly. She could feel him watching her. Eventually, she stopped.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"I'm a lawyer."

"For coming back," he corrected.

Stacy closed her eyes for a long while. "It's been a long time."

"You're still the same."

"You've changed." She traced shapeless shapes on the blanket, avoiding his gaze. "A lot."

"A lot of things have happened."

"Your life runs like a soap opera."

House laughed at that. "All I need is an illegitimate child who makes a reappearance in my life."

She could tell he was trying to cheer her up, but she couldn't take it anymore.

"Do you ever… just wonder? Whether we could have had so much more?" She dreamed about it, sometimes. A nice home with white picket fences… a baby with the most piercing blue eyes… "If it never happened?"

House stared. "You know I'm – "

"You're good with kids, Greg. You know it."

He stilled her hands. "What's happened has happened."

"Do you blame me," she said softly. "For what I did?"

She knew: what she had done so many years back had shaped the course of the rest of his life. Whatever he had done after… no matter what people said about him being the same as he was before he had been crippled, they both knew that the pain affected everything after. Who he was, what he did, how he did things... they had all changed.

Pain demanded to be felt, and for him, it was there, demanding, shouting, yelling at him every single waking moment.

Knowing that she had had a hand in shaping his circumstances perhaps was the cruelest thing she had to live with. It haunted her every day,

House didn't answer her question. She didn't blame him one bit.

"We could have built an entire life together." She took his hand, and cradled it to her cheek. "If only."

"Don't torture yourself with the what ifs." He tried to sound gruff, but failed miserably.

"I'm still not sorry, you know. For saving your life. But I am sorry that I left."

"According to Wilson, I was an insufferable asshole."

He had been, while recovering. But she had walked away from him when it had gotten tough. She shouldn't have. He had been in pain, and had been facing the prospect of never being able to walk again. "I could have stuck it out with you. Should have."

"That's enough, Stace." He pulled his hand away. Instead of dropping it, though, he cradled her cheek. "It's all in the past."

"Do you know what's amazing about you?" she murmured. "You move on." She turned her head, leaning into his hand. "It's incredible. You forgive the people you love, even when you shouldn't."

She really couldn't fathom how House could forgive her and Cuddy for what they'd done so many years ago. The leg and the pain should, everyday, have been a constant reminder of the betrayal. How come he could see past that and not hate, _hate_ them?

She knew Wilson had never really gotten over what they'd both done. It tainted their every interaction. She could see it in his eyes.

And he was supposed to be the good one.

"Stace…"

"How come you don't think you deserve better?"

The question seemed to stun him. Stacy found herself blinking back hot tears. She stood up abruptly, and leaned in.

Her soft lips lingered on his forehead. She inhaled deeply. There would never be anyone like him in her life ever again. No one could ever replace him. "You were always the one for me," she whispered. "Always."

As she pulled away, she knew this was goodbye. It was the least she could do. He was a fiercely private man. He'd survived ten years without her, and as much as she wanted to stay, he would get on fine. He had moved on without her, he had other people now. And she was glad that he had them.

The least she could do was grant him this.

Her eyes connected with his. God, those blue eyes. She missed them. _Would_ miss them. She traced his features with her eyes greedily. She wanted to memorize that face of his forever and ever.

Then, she found herself leaning in for a long, close-mouthed kiss on his lips.

"I get it," he breathed. Because he really did. "I know."

Then she walked away, back to the life she'd built away from him.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Just a few chapters left. Three, maybe four. _


	20. Chapter 20

It happened one night when Wilson, exhausted, buried his head under his pillow and didn't hear House calling for him. He didn't get to House in time.

"I'm sorry," House repeated over and over again, mortified.

By the time Wilson stripped the sheets, stuffed them into the washing machine, and helped House into a new set of pajama pants and t-shirt, it was four in the morning.

Wilsons stood there, swaying slightly on the spot. He blinked blearily as he watched House snore softly, mouth open, under the covers. He blinked another once, twice.

Then, he lifted the covers and got into the bed. There was ample space in the king-sized bed.

When morning dawned, Wilson was woken by rapid, shallow breathing. He peered over at House – still half-asleep but feeling pain already – and reached over to grab the bottle of meds. By the time he poured out a glass of water, House was fisting the sheets, perspiration beading on his forehead.

Nothing was said as Wilson helped House down the numerous pills. He noted that they were more difficult to down now. It could be attributed to House's body needing time to get going in the morning, but Wilson knew better. House used to down pills easily, but now, he required big gulps of water to help ease the pills down. And it was not rare to have him require more than a glass of water, or choke, or simply have difficulty swallowing the pills.

House still had a PICC line, but Wilson knew he would want to try and stay off IV drugs for as long as possible. IV drugs marked the start of the real decline, a decline Wilson was reluctant to have come.

The resentment and embarrassment was plain in House's eyes, but still Wilson said nothing. That was it, he knew. The limits had been reached. He let House lie there for a while to catch his breath. Then, he quietly helped House shuffle into the bathroom before heading to his own to wash up.

When nighttime came, Wilson passed House a glass of water for his meds. And they repeated the almost-painful process of getting the pills in. He took the guitar off the bed and placed it on the stand that was in the corner of the room. House hardly played the piano or organ anymore.

Then, Wilson got into bed with House. He didn't say anything, just huddled down into the duvet he had brought over from his own room. He felt House inhale sharply. But he knew House knew that this was it. It was only going to get worse.

The next time House needed to get to the bathroom at night, Wilson was there.

Then one night, Wilson startled awake in the middle of the night. He stared at the ceiling for a while, disoriented, trying to rid his mind of the vestiges of sleep. There was the pale gleam the headlights of a car as it passed by. The bed was warm. The room was silent. Everything was as it was supposed to be.

Yet, Wilson had this niggling thought at the back of his mind. It lay out of reach, distant, and he had no clue what it was about.

Then, he reached out. Instead of a warm body, there were only cool sheets.

Immediately, he was alert. Bolting upright, he was struck by the realization that he had been awoken by a loud thud. Wilson scrambled across the bed.

House was sprawled facedown on the carpet.

By the time the ambulance arrived at PPTH, Wilson was an absolute mess. He refused to leave the ER cubicle until Chase – who had been in the hospital researching a possible cure for the Diagnostics' latest patient – yanked him out and forced him to stay put on a cold, hard bench.

When Cuddy rushed in, Wilson was sitting outside the ER, his head in his hands.

"What happened?" Cuddy asked. Her hair was a mess, and her clothes were wrinkled. "Where is he?"

Wilson looked up at Cuddy. In her eyes was a terror he understood perfectly. "In there with Singh." He couldn't keep the hysteria out of his voice, and he was aware of his hands trembling. "I woke up in the middle of the night to find him on the floor and not breathing. Everything was fine. He had been a bit achy all day, so we had a slow night and he went to bed early, but everything was _fine_. Really, I – "

Cuddy sat down next to Wilson and took his hand. She tried to remain calm despite her own heart feeling as though it was about to explode. "It's okay," she hushed. "He's going to be okay."

When the tall Indian doctor walked in, Cuddy and Wilson both sprung up from their seats and immediately began rapidly questioning him. Singh visibly hesitated.

"We've managed to stabilize him. He regained consciousness for a while, but we sedated him because he was confused and agitated, not to mention in a tremendous amount of pain." Singh paused, then continued, "James, you're an oncologist too, so you know what might have caused this."

"His body starting to give up," Wilson said softly. "Or, most probably, metastasis to the lungs."

"We're waiting for the scan results, but I'm pretty sure that's the case."

"He's breathing on his own now?"

"We have him on a mask, just in case. But yes, he is breathing on his own again." Singh stared at them both for a while. The sympathy was evident in his eyes. "I'm sorry." He looked at Wilson. "You know what you have to do."

As an oncologist, yes.

But as a friend and well, family, no.

Wilson was vaguely aware of himself entering the ER cubicle and sitting down on a stool. He stared at House, who lay prone on the gurney, for a while before getting up and fiddling with… things. Everything. He made sure that the oxygen mask was on properly, that the saturation was up all the way, that the blankets were tucked in properly, that House's leg was not in an awkward position. He read through the chart. He tugged the blanket higher. Anything was better than feeling helpless.

Cuddy stopped him by laying a hand on his shoulder. "That's enough."

Wilson stilled abruptly. "Why is it taking so long for him to be transferred to his room?"

The smile on Cuddy's face was more like a grimace. "I'll go check." She rubbed at her eyes before steeling herself and stepping out.

Wilson plopped down on the stool, and watched House's chest rise and fall slowly and steadily. Was it him, or was House breathing more laboriously, even despite the sedation? He could hear the hustle and bustle of the ER around them. A thin curtain enclosed them and separated them from everyone else. But it still felt muffled, like they were in a world of their own.

Like everything in his world was centered upon this small, almost tiny cubicle.

And in a way, it was.

As Wilson followed the gurney through the hospital towards House's room, he could sense the discreet whispers and gazes. He didn't bother even making eye contact with them or trying to get them to stop.

In the end, they ended up in a large room tucked into a corner of the oncology ward. Wilson recognized it as one of those reserved for wealthy or prominent patients who didn't appreciate the glass walls that had people walking by or peering in all the time.

Jones' doing, probably.

As if on cue, Jones entered the room.

Wilson offered her a tired smile, and mouthed _thank you_.

House was out cold. But Wilson felt this irrational urge to keep quiet, in order to give House as much rest as possible. So he said nothing. Jones seemed to understand. She walked across the expansive room in her court shoes quietly and picked up House's chart.

It was silent for a long while in the room.

Eventually, Jones came to sit down next to Wilson. It was then that he realized it was now morning. "How are you holding up?" she asked quietly.

"I'm... okay."

Jones snorted. "Liar. Any bigger and those eyebags will be half your face."

Wilson smiled. "That bad?"

"_That_ bad." Jones leaned forward and placed her elbows on her knees, clasping her hands together. She tilted her head and look at him. "I would be worried if you really were okay."

Wilson looked down on the pair of rumpled jeans he had hastily pulled on. "I knew he was getting weaker. I know what to expect… but I was just… well, denial is a powerful thing."

She squeezed his shoulder reassuringly as he squeezed his eyes shut tight. "He can have this room. As long as he needs, or wants it."

"Oh, we shouldn't – "

"Yes, you should." Jones peered over her glasses at him. "This is the least I can do."

Wilson nodded his head, too tired to argue. "Thank you."

"You know you can take as much time off as you need."

"I – "

"I am sure your department can run without you. Maybe not at optimum mode, because you are _that_ good, but still well enough."

Wilson hesitated, then nodded. "Thank you."

Jones left after a while, leaving Wilson to his thoughts and the relative silence. He couldn't help but feel that it was eerily like when House used to hang out in the rooms of coma patients.

Not that he wanted to equate House to a coma patient, but still.

He was startled out of his trance when he saw a breakfast sandwich being dangled in front of his face.

"I had to drop Rachel off at Julia's," she said softly as she settled onto the couch next to him. "Has he woken up?"

Wilson shook his head. "He'll be out for a few more hours."

They sat there shoulder-to-shoulder, staring at the hospital bed in front of them. "What do you think he'll want to do?"

"What?" Wilson startled out of his reverie.

"What," Cuddy repeated, "would he want?"

"He'll never want to stay here."

"I'm not sure about that," Cuddy said softly. She twiddled her fingers. "He's been pretty big about minimizing the inconvenience he thinks he's causing lately."

"Yeah." That was something Wilson would never fully quite be able to accept – how different House was now. Sure, he had gone through a lot, but for someone who claimed people didn't change, he _had_ changed a lot. Not that whatever had happened in the past two decades were things that many people went through. "You're right."

Chase interrupted their hushed discussion with a quiet cough. "I got the page from the nurses' station." He passed them both steaming hot cups of coffee.

Wilson didn't question why Chase had instructed that he be paged if anything should happen to House. There was something between House and Chase that he doubted he would ever understand. He sipped gratefully at the cup. "Thanks."

"There is something I think the both of you should know."

Wilson and Cuddy exchanged looks.

"I don't know whether he told you this – actually, I doubt it, based on what I've observed," Chase pulled over the other armchair and sat down in front of Cuddy and Wilson, "But he has been researching into hospices."

Wilson sputtered. "_What_?"

Cuddy echoed his sentiment.

"I know," Chase said grimly. "And I don't agree either. We all know how much he would hate it."

"Then why is he even – " Cuddy seemed to remember what she'd said earlier, and trailed off. "Oh."

"He's being an ass." Wilson rubbed at his eyes wearily. "A big stupid ass."

"I don't agree either, which is why I'm telling you guys. We're doctors, and we are more than capable of caring for him at home." Chase eyed Wilson. "Maybe hire a home nurse to help out sometimes."

"No," Wilson held up a hand. "We went through eight home nurses in three weeks after the infarction. I'll do it. He'll let me."

"I'll help too," murmured Cuddy. "He might not want Rachel around, but he can't stop me from going over. We're the only family he's got now." She gestured to herself, then Wilson, then Chase. "We're all he's got."

Cameron and Stacy had come and gone, gone back to their families. Foreman, halfway across the country for better job prospects, though Wilson knew he would come back when the time came for him to. Thirteen, gone. Taub was still here, and would be here, but he was busy with the two girls.

In the end, it was Chase, Cuddy and Wilson. The three who had come to know House for the longest period of time. They had stuck around. They were House's family. Some sort of ragtag family with lots of issues, but still, _family_.

"He won't want you to do that," Wilson said quietly after a while. "You know how he feels about inconveniencing you."

It was dumb, he thought. House was _dumb_ for insisting on not troubling Cuddy. It was some kind of weird guilt that had managed to stick around despite the years that had passed since _that_ incident.

And _he_ always accused _them_ both of having guilt complexes.

Sometimes Wilson seriously wanted to bash some sense into House.

"He's doing that thing where he does the right thing in his own convoluted way again."

Chase snorted not ungracefully at Cuddy's comment. "That sounds about right."

* * *

><p>It was Cuddy who was by House's bed when he awoke.<p>

"Hi," she whispered.

It took him a long time to focus, she noted. He seemed to have trouble fighting off the sedative. It was a stark contrast to when he was alert and raring to be discharged years earlier.

But then again, they were all now older.

A while later, he finally tugged off the oxygen mask and uttered, "Hi."

He gestured for her to raise the bed further, and she did, adjusting his pillows and the blanket as the head of the bed rose up mechanically.

"What happened?"

"You fell out of bed in the middle of the night…" Cuddy slipped her hand into House's. It was cold and dry, not like the warm, lively hands he used to have, those that used to grace the black and white keys. She rubbed his fingers between hers as she tried to warm it. "Luckily, Wilson was woken up, probably by the sound of you hitting the floor. You weren't breathing, so…"

House nodded, his hand tightening fractionally around hers. She couldn't quite tell if it he comforting her, or an involuntary reaction of fear on his part.

"You gave us all a huge scare. I think Wilson nearly went into cardiac arrest."

"Such a wuss."

Cuddy couldn't resist it – she leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Gently. Because he felt like an ethereal being, treading halfway between the land of the living and whatever there was on the other side. He wasn't at the stage where everything was unpleasant and uncomfortable. Not yet. Soon, though.

"I thought this was it," she replied tearfully.

He rubbed at her wrist with his thumb. "I said I would stick around for as long as possible."

And so she realized that she was the reason he didn't sign a DNR. It had been a big surprise to hear the ER nurse tell the doctor that House did not have a DNR.

"Please come home with me," she whispered into his ear. "I'll take care of you." She didn't dare look into his eyes for fear of what she would see there. And she didn't care that she was begging. "Please."

He was silent for a long time. Finally, he murmured back, "I can't."

"Please."

"I just… can't."

"House, please, I – "

"No." The tone in his voice changed – from regret, it became agitation and almost anger. But she could tell the anger wasn't directed at her – it was at himself. She lifted her head and looked at him, and she was right. It was that look of self-loathing and unworthiness. Something she suspected he would never be able to get over. "I can't."

Watching him get more agitated, Cuddy knew it was time to back down. "Then at least with Wilson. Go home with Wilson."

He seemed to relax at that suggestion.

That frustrated Cuddy, who couldn't resist probing. "Why are you not okay with me, but totally fine with Wilson?" She couldn't stop the frustration from seeping into her voice. "I _love_ you."

As soon as those words came out of her mouth, she was eerily reminded of when they'd spent the entire day in his apartment playing hooky. With the benefit of hindsight now, she knew that as she had left his apartment, she'd left expecting the entire relationship to be an uphill battle. And judging from how tentatively he had stepped during the relationship, the odds were… he had been waiting for the entire relationship to blow up. And nearly blow up, it did, many times.

Several times during their relationship, she had wished that he would change. And now, the man that was in front of her? He was a different House. And she found herself wishing that the House of old would stop just making momentary appearances, but stick around for real. This man in front of her was… He was House, but yet, a different House.

"Rachel should be your number one priority," he mumbled. The damn oxygen mask was eating his words. "Not me."

"You can – "

"She's already acting out."

"Both of you are – "

"No," House responded fiercely. "Stop. Stop this."

"Then tell me why. You of all people should know how important that question is. Why?"

"I drove my car into your house."

"That is not the reason. You and I both know that. It doesn't matter anymore." Cuddy leaned in. "Please, just tell me the truth. Why won't you let me do this?"

"Were you there after," he gestured to his leg, lifting his oxygen mask of his face, "this?"

She shook her head slowly.

"Wilson was. He's seen me at my absolute worst." There was an inscrutable look on House's face. "There was one day he found me in the toilet in my own shit because I ate something bad and couldn't get to the toilet in time. There was that one time I pissed him off so bad he didn't come back for two days. But in the end, he came back. He always comes back. He came back after Amber."

House seemed to almost deflate after his outburst. He fingered the blankets. "We do a lot of shitty things to each other, but that's how we roll. I trust him."

"And you don't trust me?"

The silence was telling. "I'm tired, Cuddy."

Poor deflection.

"House, you can't do this – "

"Words don't matter," he breathed. "Actions do."

Cuddy finally understood. "And I left."

House looked genuinely exhausted by now, but the look in his eyes told Cuddy that she had hit the nail on the head. "After I drove my car into your house."

"After I broke up with you."

"After I took Vicodin."

"We could have worked that out," Cuddy whispered. "I should have been there helping you. It was a major setback for you. I wasn't the supportive partner I should have been."

"You had your own health to contend with."

"Yeah," she took his hand. "But I had already found out it wasn't cancer. I was… it was just the combination of every terrible thing that happened that week."

House didn't have anything to say to that.

"I hope you know I'm not leaving you anymore. You're leaving me."

"I've already screwed up your life enough."

"You are not a burden," Cuddy insisted fiercely. She squeezed his hand tight and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "You are _anything_ but a burden."

House closed his eyes for a long while. She held her breath, a mix of hope and despair in her. Finally, she exhaled heavily when his fingers tightened fractionally around her hand, and nodded wearily.

"Now, rest," she murmured. "I'm here."

He fell into a deep and easy sleep.

* * *

><p>When House awoke the second time, it was Wilson by his bedside.<p>

The first thing the oncologist did was to rap House over the knuckles with his rolled-up journal. "You're an _ass_."

"Ow."

"Don't you _dare_ give me a scare like that ever again."

"Get used to it."

House hit the nail on the head wit that statement. Wilson grimaced, then slumped. "Still."

Wilson reached over House to grab at the remote, and finally settled on the news. He resisted from raising an eyebrow when House fidgeted almost desperately in the bed. A nurse came in to check House's vitals. Wilson could almost feel the irritation roll off House. He knew it had been far too many days in the hospital in the past few months – House was chafing, hitting his limit already.

Before he could open his mouth to even poke at the elephant in the room that was House's decision to go to a hospice, House spoke.

"Wilson."

"Yeah?"

"I want to go home." House closed his eyes and rolled over onto his side. The oxygen mask muffled House's words, but still, the message was clear. "Take me home."

Wilson found himself swallowing hard. "Yeah," he tried for nonchalance but failed miserably. The relief warred with the resignation. "Let's go home."

* * *

><p><em>AN: A major change, moving halfway across the world, a death in the family, work, and life have all conspired to make my muse grind to a halt. Three chapters left. I'm actually itching to write, but nothing comes out the way I want it to. Rest assured that no WIPs will be left unfinished. If you're still reading, it'll be nice to know. _


	21. Chapter 21

When House was finally discharged a few days later, he came home to a bedroom that looked _almost_ the same.

The king-sized bed in the master bedroom had made way for a hospital-standard bed. Wilson had made sure to choose a bed that didn't seem like it came straight out of the hospital. A wooden frame made it seem more homely and less hospital-grade. There was a roll-away bed stowed in the corner. He could tell Wilson had tried to make the IV stand less conspicuous by stuffing it into the corner next to the wardrobe.

But the sheets looked and smelled like home. House's pillow wasn't a lumpy, soft mess. The blanket wasn't scratchy. His guitar was there on its stand by the bed. There was no chart by his bed. There was cable. There was no fluorescent lighting, no constant squeaking of hospital trolley wheels, no feeling of being watched and observed all the time.

"Is it okay?" Wilson was anxious for approval.

House was quiet for a while. "Are those _flowers_?"

The incredulous tone didn't throw Wilson off. He turned to look at the flowers he'd placed on the window sill. "They look nice."

"_Flowers_."

"You like them. I can tell." Wilson tried not to hover as House transferred from the wheelchair to the bed. "Anything else, master?"

House leaned back into the pillows, winded. "No." He paused, then questioned, "Don't I get a bell or something? To, you know, summon you when need be?"

"Har dee har har."

House shrugged as he tugged on his blankets. "Just trying my luck."

"Hmph," Wilson huffed as he sat down on the bed and began trying to unbutton House's loose shirt. "Nice try." He ignored House batting his hand away, and instead shoved the TV remote into House's hand. "Now quit fidgeting."

House grumbled under his breath as he switched on the small TV set, dutifully staying still as Wilson uncapped the PICC line. "You hungry?"

"No."

Wilson paused, the needle in mid-air. "You need to eat, you know that right?"

House averted his gaze. Unconsciously, his hand travelled to his stomach, and he grimaced. "I know."

"Some soup?"

House shook his head wearily. "Later."

Wilson suppressed an unhappy sigh and made up his mind to try get some food into House later.

"Wilson?"

"Hmm?"

"You should ask her out, you know."

Wilson startled, his hands slipping as he nearly poked House's chest with the needle. "What?" he sputtered.

"My chest is not a pin-cushion, thank you very much. I said, ask that brunette candy striper whom you've been ogling at out."

"Um."

"Why are you even hesitating? Have you seen those breasts?"

"I… No… She - " Wilson stuttered out, before giving up, "Yes."

"So? What are you waiting for?"

"I don't even know if she's interested," Wilson replied lamely.

"Oh _please_," House rolled his eyes. "She's been checking out your ass and offering you her home-baked cookies every single time you step into the damn ward."

"Why are you telling me this?" Wilson asked softly.

House shrugged. "Go ask her out. I'm sick of the two of you making lovey dovey eyes at each other without even having a date. It's making me sick."

"Ha ha _ha_."

"Seriously."

"You approve of her, then?"

"I quote what she said today, _I'm only letting you ogle at my boobs and ass because you are terminally ill, House_," House grumbled. "So yeah. Have at her."

Wilson chuckled. Amanda was the only candy striper who dared go near House. They had the most entertaining conversations, reveling in the sharp wit and barbs they exchanged.

"I'll be okay, you know," Wilson said after a while. He steadfastly pinned his gaze on the PICC line as he fiddled with it. "_After_."

House obviously didn't quite believe him. "I know."

"I'm serious."

"You don't handle grief well, Wilson," House muttered gruffly.

Wilson knew it was true. "That was different. That was out of the blue. This… the suspense you're building is torturous, you know." And before he could stop himself, he added, "It's killing me."

There was a short pause, then House snorted and laughed out loud. "Look at you… You look mortified. You're an oncologist, for God's sake, Wilson."

Wilson ducked his head. "It's hitting a little too close to home time," he muttered.

Wilson felt House twitch slightly in the bed, and knew that House agreed.

When he was done with the PICC line, he peered up to find House asleep, mouth slightly open and just barely snoring. Wilson took a moment for himself, closing his eyes, allowing himself to slump forward and leaning against the railings of the bed.

He allowed himself a moment to freak out.

Then, laying a head over House's chest, he let the sound of the gentle snores and the rise and fall of the chest calm him down.

* * *

><p>When House opened his eyes, it was Chase seated next to his bed. He was typing methodically on the computer, concentration fully on the screen, but caught House looking at him. He nodded shortly in acknowledgement.<p>

House let his eyes fall close again, drifting off again for an indeterminate amount of time before rising to consciousness again. "What are you doing here?" he finally said after feeling more himself and less trapped in a grey haze of muffled sound and pure fatigue. "Where's Wilson?"

"Hello to you too," Chase peered over his laptop at House's grumble. He set the laptop down and poured out a glass of water with one hand while helping House sit up with the other. "Wilson had an emergency with one of his kids whose parents refused to let any other doctor treat."

"Bah," was all House could summon. "Parents."

"Cuddy's at a meeting with some ex-donors who'd left when she'd left for New York. Jones is hoping to woo them back."

House rolled his eyes, making clear his opinion of donors, and shifted on the bed. "Aren't you supposed to be with some patient who is bleeding out of her eyes?"

Chase shrugged. "Taub and Masters are searching her house right now – and yes, we asked for her keys – Park is at the office with Connell." Park and Connell were the new fellows whom Chase – with very constructive comments from House that had consisted of wholly irrelevant remarks that had nothing to do with the medicine but everything to do with their looks and figures – had selected. "You wanna see the test results? Got them right here on the laptop."

House seemed to consider Chase's offer for a moment, taking in the laptop and its glowing screen before shaking his head. It was not worth the effort to put on his reading glasses – wherever they were, it was hard to keep track nowadays, not that he got to use them very much anyway – focus through the haze of the pain medications, and try to think.

Chase was good enough. He'd better be – it had been nearly a decade since he joined Diagnostics. House didn't quite realize he'd said that out loud until he saw Chase's palpable disappointment. Which was ridiculous, because Chase was supposed to be proud of himself, not disappointed that House was unwilling to help.

Or something like that. It was hard to think straight with the amount of meds he was doped up on in order to make the pain slightly bearable.

"I've got something I've been working on," Chase finally said after a while. "I want you to take a look."

House allowed Chase to lay a pillow across his lap and place the laptop on top. He leaned in closer. "A textbook?"

"I just thought… it'll be good. Ten years ago, no one would have thought Diagnostics a distinct department from the A&E, or General Surgery. Now, it's different."

"Damn," House narrowed his eyes. "Do not tell me you're teaching."

The way Chase's eyes shifted was a good enough answer.

"The Head of Diagnostics is not supposed to _teach_," House whined. "I thought I established that well enough!"

"That single session you taught was really good," Chase defended. "And Jones is no way as lenient as Cuddy was towards Diagnostics. It's a bi-weekly lecture only, and it's always a full house! They love it."

House paused as something occurred to him. He added almost menacingly. "Do _not_ tell me there are interns in Diagnostics."

"Well…"

"Chase!"

"It's a prestigious internship offered to only the top two students of the semester! And it's only for one month each year!"

"You're ruining my department. You're _ruining it." _

Chase rolled his eyes. "Theatrics."

House jabbed a finger in the air. "You're undoing all my work!"

"Well excuse me for wanting to give others a chance to learn." Chase dragged out the word _excuse_ and accompanied it with a gentle poke. "Excuse me for doing things differently now that it's _my_ department."

"The department I founded," House interjected. "And is now being run by the shmuck who once x-rayed the wrong foot – "

"And yet, is now Head of Diagnostics," Chase cut in emphatically. "As approved by you." Chase tapped on the screen of his laptop. "I am not razing it to the ground. I might do things a little differently from you, but that doesn't mean it's wrong." Then, softening, he said quietly, "I'll always remember what you've taught me. I just want others to have the same chance to learn."

Chase looked straight into House's eyes, chin jutted out ever so slightly. House recognized that bit of him. It was the grim determination that had somehow emerged in Chase over the years.

In the end, House sighed, looking away. "If you ever do anything to ruin the department, I will personally rise from the grave to kick your butt."

Chase straightened, a smile slowly creeping onto his face. "Wouldn't expect anything less."

"My name first on the textbook," House added grumpily. "The more gory visuals the better."

"Dream on," Chase replied cheerfully as he scooped up the laptop and settled back into the squishy armchair. "Maybe a mention in the foreword." He buried his nose back into his laptop, occasionally asking House questions about certain cases or for advice on how to proceed in a hypothetical case. Or rather, they debated about the merits of certain procedures, and how the high level of risk they entailed shouldn't stop anyone from getting at the answer.

"Chase," House suddenly said seriously after a long pause. He fingered the blanket and fidgeted uncomfortably.

Chase could hear the change in tone. He straightened in his seat. "Yeah."

"Can you help me..." A quiet mutter. "I want a bath."

Chase pointedly continued typing on the laptop for a while. "Sure," he agreed easily, making sure to keep his tone light. "Give me two minutes to wrap this up."

He had expected this. From what Wilson had told him, Wilson and Cuddy had been helping House into the shower chair for his daily showers ever since House had moved home a week ago. But as much as showers made a person squeaky clean, House had always preferred hot baths. Soaking in hot water helped improve blood circulation – something House was always particular about for the leg - and soothed aches and pains.

The problem was, Cuddy was too small in size to take House's weight and help him into the bathtub. And Wilson's back had never been in great shape, much less now that he was fast approaching the wrong side of fifty.

Chase set aside the laptop and stood up, heading into the en-suite bathroom to run the bath. He tested the water with the back of his hand before laying a foam mat down in the tub and laying several towels against the back of the tub.

House had already scooted over to the edge of the bed when Chase re-entered the bedroom. Chase sat down on the right side of House and waited. From the way House was glaring balefully at the wheelchair, Chase knew he was going to support House to the bathroom.

When House nodded, he extended one arm and wrapped it around House's torso.

He felt, rather than heard, the agreement.

Lifting House was easy. Chase could feel House lean heavily on him, his body a warm weight against his side. He waited for House to take the first step before moving forward incrementally, taking most of the weight whenever House stepped on his right foot. Chase could feel every single labored breath House took, as well as the sharp pain from House's fingernails digging into his bicep.

The last few steps into the toilet consisted of Chase carrying House more than anything else. In the end, he settled House on the toilet and left quietly to retrieve the oxygen tank. House seemed about to snark at the sight of the hospital tank, but the pressing need to regulate his breathing and not pass out from lack of oxygenation seemed to stop him, and he allowed Chase to place the mask on his face, his hand trembling slightly as it came up to hold the mask in place.

Chase helped House take off his ratty white cotton tee. He ignored the angles and sharp corners on House's torso as he crouched down in front of House to make sure that the cap of the PICC line was screwed on tight and waterproof. He gestured to House's drawstring pants. "Wanna leave these on?"

House seemed to contemplate for a while before removing the mask and rasping, "I'm wearing boxers."

Off came the blue pajama pants. The loose boxers just barely covered the scar, which Chase carefully avoided as he tugged off the pants. He moved swiftly but gently, not wanting to make this anymore uncomfortable for House, but also not wanting to hurt him, for he bruised easily now.

House's entire body had begun withering away. What used to be well-defined muscles in the shoulders, biceps and left leg had long withered away, leaving behind a thin and bruised body that was undoubtedly the body of a sick man. House's right leg had atrophied even further. The scar no longer seemed like a canyon; it in fact appeared to consist of almost ragged peaks protruding from House's thin and pale thigh.

They left the boxers on. Chase helped House transfer to the edge of the bathtub. Hooking one of House's arms around his neck to make sure he didn't fall over and crack his head open, he took the majority of House's weight as House lifted his left leg over the edge of the bathtub. For a brief moment, House scrabbled frantically for a handhold as he lost his balance, nearly tipping over into the bathtub. But Chase eventually regained his balance, his right hand shooting out to stop them both from toppling into the bathtub.

Moving the right leg required some effort on Chase's part, but eventually, House slid down into the hot water safely.

As he settled down onto the foam mat, his hands coming to rest limply at the bottom of the tub palms-up, House closed his eyes and leaned against the towels. Chase could hear the sigh of relief. As he watched House settle in, he could see tense muscles and the frown lines on House's face – that had become so familiar – slowly begin to relax and disappear.

House seemed to retreat into his own world at this point, not reacting even when Chase retrieved his paperwork and settled down on the toilet, wary to leave House alone in the bathroom in a tub full of water.

"This is very kinky," House murmured after a while. "You perv."

"I would rather not have you drown, thank you very much," Chase said wryly as he reached over to dip his hand into the water. He frowned as he realized it was cooling, and immediately turned on the hot water tap. "I think Cuddy still has the power to ruin my career."

House smiled slightly at that. "Mmm."

"Water still warm enough?"

A contented hum. Chase didn't miss the brief flash of gratitude that House shit his way before closing his eyes and sinking deeper into the water.

As Chase was about to refill the tub for the second time, he was startled by the sound of the door opening.

"Hey," Cuddy said softly. Her eyes immediately darted to House, who was asleep with his head thrown back and mouth wide open. "You helped him in…?"

Chase stood up from his makeshift seat and set on the counter his documents. "He asked me about half an hour ago. You're done with Mr and Mrs Crawlin? That's fast."

Cuddy shrugged modestly. "They've always been staunch supporters of PPTH. Where's Wilson?"

"The Bayley kid was admitted today and they were kicking up a huge fuss about them being major donors and yet not having the head of oncology treat them. He left," Chase checked his watch, "about three-ish." Chase glanced at Cuddy, then House. "I'll be outside. Let me know when he's done?"

Cuddy smiled gratefully, stepping out of her heels.

She waited till Chase left before crouching down next to the tub and running her hand through House's thinning grey hair. "Hey," she whispered softly. "Wake up." She leaned in to press a kiss to his forehead as he opened his eyes, blearily blinking several times. "Morning."

An incoherent mumble was all she got. She could tell it was a _good_ incoherent mumble though. She laughed softly as she rolled up the sleeves of her navy blue blouse. Cuddy removed the drain plug and let some of the now lukewarm water drain away, turning on the tap again to refill the tub. She could feel him shiver slightly, so she rubbed her hands against his arms, trying to summon up some sort of heat.

When the tub was full again, she helped him sit up. With one arm wrapped around his shoulders – more an embrace than support – she began shampooing his head.

"This is supposed to be a really sexually charged moment," House grumbled. "Mount Gregory is supposed to be way more enthusiastic than this."

She leaned in and planted a quick kiss on his temple. "So your brain has decided to start working?"

He leaned his head to the left, smushing his ear against the back of her hand that was wrapped around his shoulder. "The hot water feels really good." He admitted.

"I know."

"This is what I used to fantasize about."

She laughed out loud at that, a hearty one. "_I know_."

"The best sex we had was in the bathtub," he said gloomily.

"I agree," she said mildly as she reached up for the handheld showerhead. "Tilt your head back."

He obediently tilted his head back as she let the water flow over his soapy head, careful to not let any of it get into his eyes. "We had some phenomenal times in your bathtub."

Cuddy made a face as she turned off the handheld showerhead and grabbed the bottle of medicated shower gel designed for diabetic patients with neuropathic pain. "The entire bathroom floor was covered in water."

House sniggered. "We got better at it after a while. Less water, more movement. More moaning."

Cuddy gave him a light slap on the back for that before she resumed using the soft washcloth to soap his body. They were silent for a while, House's eyes closed as he savored the sensations. Cuddy slowly made her way from his back to his chest, steadfastly ignoring how she could feel the knobs of his spine and the ridges of his ribs.

House tilted his head forward slightly and whispered against her wrist. "Do you miss it?"

"Of course I do," she murmured back, her fingers tightening fractionally around the washcloth as she continued rubbing it gently across his delicate skin. The front of her blouse was getting wet, but she didn't really care. "You're a sex god, as you always claim."

"I'm always tired now," he said quietly.

She could feel it in every bone of his body. "It's okay." He took the washcloth from her to clean his own genital area, and she took the opportunity to sweep her hair back over her shoulder.

"Contrary to popular belief," Cuddy stated matter-of-factly when House relinquished the washcloth to her. It hurt him to bend over. "I love you _not_ for your sexual prowess." She moved the washcloth down his left leg, making sure to get behind the knees and between the toes. "And not for those devastating blue eyes too," she hastily added, seeing him begin to quip so.

"Yeah, yeah."

"It's true."

As she progressed to his right leg, she could feel him tense slightly. After all these years, he still tensed when it came to the right leg. Even with her. She shut down on the slight pang of disappointment, instead concentrating on making this as swift and painless as possible for him. Still, he only relaxed after she was done with the entire right leg.

"Want to soak for a while longer?" Cuddy asked after she was done.

A satisfied sigh and nod from House. Cuddy turned on the hot water tap and let some of the lukewarm water out, waiting for the tub to heat up again before she turned the tap off. She trailed her fingertips across a cheek and leaned in to kiss him at the corner of his mouth before getting up and sitting down on the toilet, her elbows on her knees. She was content to just watch him and spend the time with him in silence.

"House."

"Hmm?"

"You didn't sign a DNR." She paused, then added. "When I got the call from Wilson, I was so afraid that there would be a DNR, and I wouldn't get the chance to… see you."

House opened his eyes and dropped his head to one side, looking at her. "Yes."

"I thought you would have signed it." She let him take her hand and threaded her fingers through his. "I was almost mad at you – when I was rushing over – I was so mad, so terrified because I thought you would have signed a DNR."

House remained quiet for a long while. "You remember the night after we found the metastasis?"

"Yes."

"I mean what I say." He gave a crooked smile, almost conspiratorial. Then, not giving Cuddy more time to process what he'd said, he raised his voice, "Chase!"

Chase appeared at the door in mere seconds. "You ready?"

"Yeah" House said. "Can't let you slack off, can I?"

Chase glanced between Cuddy and House for a moment before stepping in and helping House out of the bathtub.

Filing what House had said to the back of her mind for later, Cuddy hurried to the bedroom and got a soft towel and House's clothes from the closet. The hot bath had made him sleepy and pliant, muscles loose and relaxed, so she helped him into his clothes while rubbing his head gently with the towel to dry his hair.

By the time House was fully dressed in his soft shirt and pants, and the PICC line had been reconnected by Chase, House was almost fully asleep. Cuddy slipped the memory foam pillow under House's right knee as Chase maneuvered him into a comfortable position for sleep. Then she laid the two blankets over him.

"I've got to go," Chase said softly when they were all done. "I have to review some test results with the team."

Cuddy glanced at her watch. It was six in the evening. "You don't have to drive them so hard like he did you guys. It's your department now. He was a slavedriver."

Chase's lips quirked up in an ironic smile. "It's because he drove us so hard that we are where we are today. But don't worry, I'll make sure to let the team have at least _some_ sleep."

"I heard that." A sleepy interjection from the bed.

"You once made us stay overnight to run tests while you went home to your bed," Chase jested mockingly. "And you had the nerve to saunter in the next day fresh-faced and whistling."

"With donuts."

"Alright, break it up, boys," Cuddy cut in. "You," she pointed to House, "rest." Then she turned to Chase. "You, please get some rest as well. No all-nighters in the hospital."

Chase walked over to the bed and laid a hand on House's forearm. There used to be a rule of no-contact, but somewhere along the way across the years, it had disappeared. Chase didn't know when they'd crossed that line. But he was glad that they had. "I'll see you soon, House."

"Shoo."

Chase rolled his eyes and slipped out the door.

When Cuddy turned back, House was looking at her with an unidentifiable look in his eyes. She quietly shut the door and sat down at the edge of the bed. When he didn't do anything, she slotted herself into the bed below the blankets. Wary of hurting him, she made sure not to place any pressure on his body, simply tucking herself into his side. He didn't grumble, only made space for her by shifting marginally to the side.

She had the sudden urge to say_, I miss you_. Instead, the words that came out of her mouth were, "Rest well, House."

As she watched him slowly drift off to sleep, she wondered about why she'd wanted to say _I miss you_, and not _I'm _going to_ miss you_.

All those years ago, she had thought that if he'd changed, he would be a better man, and she would love him more. Now that he had changed, she found herself wanting the old him back. The man in front of her was no longer the House she had admired and loved and bickered with all those years ago. And God, she missed him. She missed that House who would storm into her office and demand to be let out of clinic hours, and flirt with her and make inappropriate jokes at her. That House had been in pain, yes, but he had been full of life and vitality and a spark and passion that no one else could rival.

She rued the day that she left. She hadn't been able to love him fully for who he was, flaws and all. She had not been strong. And if she hadn't even tried to love him and accept him unconditionally, flaws and all, then who was she to say that she had tried her best, and that he had been the only one in the wrong?

The years had changed him, and what they'd gone through had changed him. A little here, and a little there, they all added up to a lot. Something had broken somewhere along the way, and the fact that they'd mended it didn't mean that all was fine. The cracks were still there. Would always still be there.

"I miss you," she whispered, even though she knew she was not entitled to do so. She had wanted him to change. And now, here she was, wanting _that_ part of him that had died out a long time ago to reappear for just the briefest moment.

It made brief appearances sometimes. There would be a moment or two where there would be that spark in his eyes as he talked to Wilson, or moments where she'd feel that _spark_, that _fire_, between them again. But those moments left as swiftly as they came, leaving behind something bereft in her heart. He was here, but he wasn't _here_.

So why was there this soul-sucking sadness threatening to overwhelm her at every moment that she spent with him?

She didn't have the right to say it, but she did, again. "I miss you," she whispered into his ear. "I miss you so goddamn much."

* * *

><p>"Anyone can love a thing because. That's as easy as putting a penny in your pocket. But to love something despite. To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect." - Patrick Rothfuss, <em>The Wise Man's Fear<em>.


End file.
